Fire & Ice
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: “But if I’m fire,” I protested, “and you’re ice, what do we have in common?” Tom smirked, reaching up and twisting a strand of my hair around his finger. “Destruction.” I pressed my knife to his throat, drawing blood. “My feelings exactly.” TR/GW
1. Chapter One

**A/N: **this is a Tom/Ginny Timetravel fic. It's not a replacement for my other HP fic "_adversus solem …_" but rather a side project that I've been threatening for a while. I hope you enjoy it!

**Disclaimer: **believe it or not, I don't own Harry Potter. Jo does. Bully for her

Beta'd by **_pop-pop-bananas_**

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**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter One

_  
I'm stuck in the middle with you,  
And I'm wondering what it is I should do,  
It's so hard to keep this smile from my face,  
Losing control, yeah, I'm all over the place,  
Clowns to the left of me,  
Jokers to the right,  
Here I am,  
Stuck in the middle with you._  
'Stuck in the Middle with You' – Stealers Wheel

*** * ***

(_Ginny_)

"They're coming for us." Harry's voice was no more than a feather, a whisper of a whisper. Grabbing me by wrist, he pulled me along behind him, deeper and deeper into the forest. Together we ran, ran faster than we had ever dreamed we could run. Harry's Invisibility Cloak streamed out behind me as I sprinted down the ragged path, yet it did not hinder me. The Forbidden Forest was on our side. No tree roots tripped us, no brambles snatched at us, no low hanging branches caught us tight and pulled us close. "They're coming for us."

They had been coming for a year now, ever since Dumbledore had died. Only a year, three hundred and sixty-five days, but it felt like so much longer. They had come and gone for everyone else, until only Harry and I remained. There was no one else. No one but them. The Death Eaters. Voldemort. I could hear them, crashing through the undergrowth. They were behind us – far, but not far enough. I was tired, I was weak and sick and spent. Harry was only slightly better. They would catch us them time, I knew it. I knew it.

"They won't catch us." Harry ran faster, pulling me with him, refusing to let me go even though I was slowing him down. "They won't. If we can make it to Hogwarts... "

Hogwarts. The last safe haven of the Wizarding World. The only place where He could not go. Where He dared not go. Though Dumbledore was dead, something of him lived on, protecting the castle. Voldemort did not need to gain access to Hogwarts to rule, but it vexed him so, being denied entry to the only place he had ever felt at home. A year ago I might have found it funny. A year ago I might have laughed about it with my brothers, my mother and father, my friends. Now laughter was something that belonged to the past. Now those I would have laughed with were dead, killed by the hand of Lord Voldemort. Now we ran like Hell while all around us the world as we knew it burned to dust. Only this time, no Phoenix would arise from the ashes and start afresh. This time, Voldemort had won.

"We'll make it." Harry was trying to convince himself as much as he was me. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. All I could do was run, and keep running, for I knew if I stopped, I would never start again. If I stopped, I would die. And if I died, Harry would too. "We'll make it, Gin. I know we will."

If I had been able to speak I would have told him to shut up and save his breath. It didn't matter if they heard us. They had used our blood in a Locator Charm. They would find us. They always did. And we always fought them off, escaped, ran. But now that we had no wands, we could not fight. Now that we had no plan, we could not escape. Now we could only run. And running wasn't enough.

We burst into a clearing and I was momentarily blinded by the moonlight. My foot snagged a loose stone and I went tumbling to the ground. The Invisibility Cloak slipped from my shoulders and flooded, liquid silver, over the black mud. Harry whirled around and came charging back to me. He caught me under the armpits and hauled me back to my feet, but I could not stand. Collapsing in the dirt, I clutched at my side. It felt like it was on fire. I could not breath. I coughed. Once I started, I couldn't stop. My rasps echoed up through the silent night. Harry clutched me to him as the coughing worsened, his arms tight around me, one hand on the back of my head, pressing my face against his shoulder. My body shook so violently I swore I could hear my organs rattling around inside me. When the spasm passed I hung, limp as an abandoned rag doll, in his arms.

"Breathe, Ginny," Harry murmured. "Breathe. Just keep breathing."

"But it's so hard," I cried.

"I don't care." Slowly, Harry leaned back from me. He grasped me by shoulders and surveyed me. I watched as the blood drained from his face. "Ginny," he gasped, our pursuers forgotten. "Ginny. You're bleeding."

I touched a shaking hand to my mouth. It came away wet. In the moonlight my blood looked black. I licked my lips and tasted salt. Deep within me I could feel my lungs filling with liquid, drowning me from the inside.

I looked up at Harry. "Go on without me. I can't, Harry. I can't. I don't want to run anymore. I just want die." I was crying. Tears ran down my face cutting tracks through the grime and the blood. "I just want to die. Let me die, Harry." I wrenched the cloak free of my legs and threw it at Harry. "You go on. You're the Chosen One. I'm nobody, Harry. Let me die. Please."

"No." His face was hard. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed the top of my head. "I will not let you die. Not ever."

"Everybody dies sometime, Harry," I whispered. "This is my time." I gave him a feeble push to send him on his way. He didn't even notice it. "Go. Please. For me."

"Not without you."

"I can't."

Harry stood up. "Then I'll carry you," he answered simply, as if he wasn't just as tired as I was, just as weak as I was. The only difference between Harry and I was that he hadn't given up. A part of me hated myself for not wanting to continue. Another part of me hated Harry.

"You can't."

Harry pulled me to my feet and threw the Cloak back over my head like a veil. "Why not?"

"Because you're not strong enough."

"I'll manage. You're not that heavy, you know." He held my hand in his and gripped my elbow with his free hand, steadying me.

I was pleading with him and he wasn't listening to me. "Because you're not fast enough. They'll catch you … They'll kill you."

"So?"

I wasn't aware that I was walking away until we had let the clearing and the trees robbed us of our moonlight. I looked over my shoulder, wanting to see the moon smile one last time. She was as pure and white as fresh snow. It hurt to see something to beautiful. It hurt, but it was a good hurt.

"I love you," Harry whispered, squeezing my hand.

I looked up into his eyes. Emerald green behind cracked lenses. "I know."

"I know you know. I just wanted to say it. One last time."

I walked faster, ignoring the pain. We came out into another clearing. "Don't say that."

"What? That I love you?" Harry's tone was unreadable. I shook my head. "What then? What?"

I squeezed his fingers. "One last time. Don't say one last– "

Behind us, a twig snapped.

We froze. Unconsciously, Harry shifted his body so that he was in front of me. Protecting me. We were still holding hands. Draco Malfoy raised his wand and screamed into the night.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

A flash of green light lit up the trees. I heard the jubilant cries of the other Death Eaters carried on the wind. I saw Malfoy's face, grey as cold ash, the green light captured in his eyes. I saw Harry, still holding my hand, staring at Malfoy. I saw Malfoy's wand, thrust high up the Heavens. I saw Malfoy staring at Harry. I saw the Dark Mark hovering above my head. And I understood.

"Run," Malfoy whispered.

"Why?" Harry demanded, suspicious. "Is this some sort of trap?"

"No."

"I don't believe you," Harry accused.

I pulled on Harry's fingers. "I do," I said quietly. Malfoy whirled about, his eyes flickering around the clearing as he tried to identify the speaker. I shrugged the cloak from my shoulders. "I believe him," I said, louder this time. I took a step backwards, tugging Harry with me. "I believe him. He's bought us some time. The Death Eaters will have slowed down. They think you're down and they don't know I'm with you. Let's go, Harry. Hogwarts must be near." It was ironic that as soon as I regained my verve, Harry lost his will to move. He was staring at Malfoy.

"Why?" he whispered.

"You saved me once," Malfoy answered tonelessly.

Harry shrugged. "What can I say? I've got a 'saving people' thing."

I could not see his face, but I knew he was trying to smile. I could tell from his voice.

"Now it's my turn."

"Thanks, but save Ginny instead."

"I'll save us all," Malfoy breathed. The Death Eaters were getting closer. They had not slowed down, but sped up. I could hear bangs and shouts as they crashed though the forest, eager to claim the body of their conquered foe.

"Come on, Harry," I murmured, taking another step backwards. Harry's fingers slipped from mine.

Harry ignored me. He was still staring at Malfoy. "Good luck with that." He tried, but he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Got a plan?"

I heard fumbling and the chink of metal on metal. Slowly, I raised my head. Malfoy was holding something gold. It twinkled in the light of the Mark.

"Got a Time-Turner."

Harry gasped. "Where did you get it?"

"Snape gave it to me before me died."

"Snape gave it you!" Harry spluttered, sounding as confused as I felt. Snape was a highly proficient Wizard and Voldemort's right-hand man. Why would he provide a disenchanted teenager with a means to undo everything he had strived so hard to achieve? "Snape's _dead?!_"

"He killed him."

We all knew who He was.

Harry's eyes were wide. "No!"

"Yes," Malfoy replied calmly.

"_Why?_"

"He was a double-agent."

"Should've known. Slimy git," Harry said. Almost fondly.

I watched, transfixed, as the Time Turner's tiny hourglass, suspended on a golden chain, swung back and forth like a pendulum, winking and smiling in the Mark's green glow. Subconsciously, Harry drew the Invisibility Cloak's hood back up over my head so that I disappeared entirely from view.

A ball of light encroached on the clearing through the gloomy trees. I heard cackling. It was Bellatrix Lestrange.

In a split second Harry made his decision. He pushed me forward into Malfoy's arms. "Keep her safe," he begged. "Take her with you."

Malfoy nodded once, his jaw locked. He dragged me across the clearing as Harry threw himself to the ground – supposedly dead – and Bellatrix Lestrange came crashing through the trees, her wand aloft. She ground to a halt above Harry's prone figure.

"Where are you going, Draco?" she asked, her eyes mad.

Malfoy inhaled sharply. Discreetly, he pushed me forward into the trees and turned back around to face Bellatrix.

"Nowhere," he replied coolly. "Just checking the perimeter. All clear."

Bellatrix nodded. "Very good. Very good." She was crouched over Harry now. She poked him with her wand. Harry didn't move. "Is he dead?"

"I would assume so," came a new drawling voice. Lucius Malfoy swept majestically into the clearing like he had already been crowned King. "Seeing as Draco hit him with the Killing Curse. Death usually is the result of such an occurrence. Well done, Draco," he praised his son, shaking his hand.

"Knew you had it in you!" Antonin Dolohov came striding through the darkness to slap Malfoy on the back in congratulations. "Potter and all! The Dark Lord will be pleased."

"Very pleased," echoed Augustus Rookwood.

I was on first-name terms with all of these monsters.

Slowly, a circle formed around the edge of the clearing and I was forced to step inside it lest someone fall over my invisible feet in the dark. Draco was shivering in the chilly August air. Lucius stood proudly by his son, sneering down at where Harry's body lay in the dirt. No one was talking now. Even Bellatrix had ceased her maniac laughing. They were waiting for Him.

And he came, his eyes glowing red from beneath his hood. All the Death Eaters bowed low and Bellatrix threw herself at his feet. I heard my heart thump. It beat so loud I feared they would hear it, that it would give me away.

"Who killed him?" Lord Voldemort asked softly. He had once longed to kill Harry himself, but as the war dragged on and on he no longer cared who did the deed, once it was done.

Lucius Malfoy pushed his son forward. "Draco did, My Lord," he declared arrogantly. "He found Potter and killed him. My son killed Harry Potter."

Malfoy said nothing.

"Did he now?" Voldemort's tone was amused. "That is a most pleasant surprise ... Bella!"

Bellatrix gazed up at him adoringly from where she grovelled in the mud. "Yes, my Lord."

"Check the body," Voldemort ordered. Bellatrix shuffled forward on her knees. Her breathing was heavy – heavier than mine – as she bent down to check Harry's pulse.

"_He's not dead!_"

The whole night froze solid.

Harry leapt to his feet, snatched Bellatrix's wand right out of her hand and pointed it at Voldemort, screaming a spell––

"No matter." Voldemort flicked his wand lazily. The clearing exploded with green light. Harry hit the dirt, his mouth open, his wand armed raised, pride and glory blazing in his dead eyes. "He is now."

I could not cry. I could not feel. I could do nothing. I could only stand there, frozen as the night, under the Invisibility Cloak, gazing at Harry's dead body.

A great shout of victory went up. It went on forever and ever, with yells and laughs and cries and explosions and stomping and clapping. The ground beneath me shook.

"Draco," Voldemort purred. "Come here."

Malfoy may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was no fool. He took one look at Voldemort and ran for it. But he had hardly gotten two metres before Crabbe and Goyle, his old cronies, tackled him to the ground.

"_Crucio._"

Malfoy writhed and shrieked in the dirt beside me. All the Death Eater were watching him, laughing and jeering. They wore no masks now. They didn't need to. In the new regime, Death Eaters were honoured. The curse went on forever and forever, until Malfoy stopped screaming and lay still, in too much pain to move.

"Get up, Draco," Voldemort whispered, lifting the curse.

Malfoy didn't move.

"I said _get up_, Draco.

I watched from beneath the Cloak as Malfoy struggled to his hands and knees. His face was bloody and there was dirt and leaves in his blonde hair. Something gold glinted in his clenched fist. He was going to use the Time-Turner now and escape.

"Lord Voldemort is waiting, Draco."

Crabbe and Goyle circled Malfoy like sharks. He would not have time to use the Time-Turner before they got to him, and he knew it. He looked up, his eyes flickering around the clearing.

"Weasel," he croaked. "Weasel? Where are you Weasel?"

The Death Eaters laughed, thinking he was cracking under the torture. I knew better. I knew he was looking for me.

"Where are you Weasel?" he screamed. "_Where are you? _Come out and play! It's TIME to play _CATCH!_"

Malfoy flung his arms up into the air and something gold shot out of them. Time seemed to slow as the Time-Turner rose up into the air, spinning a thousand times as it flew across the midnight sky. Death Eaters shot spells at it, but they all missed. The Time-Turner began to fall. I watched it, anticipating its every move. I was a Seeker and it was the ultimate Golden Snitch.

If I went back in time just one hour, I could save Harry. If I went back just one year, I could save Dumbledore and everyone who had died over the past year. If I went back just four years, I could stop Voldemort rising again. If I went back eighteen years, I could save Harry's parents.

I stood forward, throwing the cloak back off my shoulders, and thrust my air up into the air to catch the falling hourglass.

"He killed my mother," Malfoy whispered, his voice somehow reaching me through the chaos. "Kill him."

Its tiny hourglass still spinning, the Time-Turner's chain fell down over my waiting arm – Voldemort shrieked – and everything went black.

When I came to, I was lying face down on the ground. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to. Slowly, I pressed my hands against the earth. I felt dirt and leaves beneath my fingers and I guessed I was still in the Forbidden Forest. I was probably lying in the exact same place I had been before Malfoy spun the Time Turner. Slowly, I opened my eyes and raised my head. Big mistake. My ribs ached and I coughed. More blood splattered the mud.

It was a long time before I moved again.

*** * ***

Sunlight was spying on me through gaps in the trees when I awoke again. I had not seen sunlight for almost a year. Ignoring the pain in my chest, I rolled onto my back and spread my arms wide. As I lay in the summer sun I felt like any normal sixteen-year-old girl. I forgot that I was in pain and coughing up blood. I forgot that everyone I had ever known was dead. I forgot that I was miles from home in a different time – a time I didn't even know! How many times had Malfoy spun the Time-Turner? I put the matter to the back of my mind. I had more pressing things to worry about that the date. I had to get out of the Forbidden Forest. I had to find Hogwarts, find Dumbledore. I knew the school couldn't be that far away; the light filtering through the tree was strong.

Full of fresh determination, I forced myself to my knees. I wasn't ready for standing. One hand clamped around my side, I struggled down the path on my knees. There was a bend in path twenty yards from where I had been lying. I rounded it and saw Hogwarts through the thinning trees.

It was so close.

I broke down and cried.

*** * ***

I drifted on a sea of nothingness, occasionally surfacing enough to hear voices through a veil, but my brain, still frozen, refused to process what they were saying.

…

"_I found her, Professor Dumbledore, sir. At the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She was jus' lyin' there. I dunno where she came from._"

"_Alas, neither do I._"

"_Will she be all righ', sir? She didn't look too good._"

"_We shall see, Hagrid. Only time can tell. You did well bringing her up to castle immediately._"

"_Thank yeh, sir._"

…

"_Whatever shall we do with her, Albus? I have never seen her before. It is almost as if she materialised out of thin air!_"

"_Indeed, Armando. But I do not think it was out of thin air that she materialised._"

"_But what shall we do with her? She can't possibly stay here. Not at Hogwarts._"

"_On the contrary, I believe it imperative that she remains here. You know as well as I do that she must be of magical birth. No Muggle could find Hogwarts._"

"_If you say so. But you must see to her, Albus. She is your responsibility. Merlin knows I have enough to do … Especially after the events of last year._"

…

"_She is healing well, Albus. I am positive there will be no lasting injuries._"

"_No lingering effects of any kind?_"

"_Not physically. Mentally, I can't say. I can only imagine what kind of state her mind is after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Poor lamb. Poor, poor lamb … Who would do that to child, Albus? A wee bairn?_"

"_I don't know, Mary. I don't know._"

"_To be frank, Albus, I don't want to know._"

…

I was warm all over. I was lying on something soft, something that did not feel like the floor of the Forbidden Forest. Bullying my brain into action, I moved my hand. Cotton sheets slipped past my fingers. I was in a bed. I opened my eyes. The lights were dim and but my eyes stung and I closed them to slits. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool.

"You are in the infirmary of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is ten o'clock on August the twenty-ninth, if you want to know. You have been asleep for almost two weeks." Above me, someone was talking. I recognised the voice. I would have recognised it anywhere. Wise, thoughtful and twinkling. "You've been through quite an ordeal, but don't worry," he continued. "You are safe here." It was Professor Dumbledore.

I cracked open my eyes further, searching for him. Out of the half-light, he emerged. But it Dumbledore was not the old man I remembered. He looked younger, much younger. His hair and beard were auburn and his face less wrinkled, but the blue eyes behind the spectacles were the same.

"What is your name?" Dumbledore asked gently.

I tried to tell him, I really did. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Dumbledore conjured a glass of water from thin air and helped me drink. Greedily, I gulped it down. It tasted like Heaven.

"What is your name?" he repeated.

"Ginny," I croaked. My voice was cracked and weak. "Ginevra … Ginny."

"And your surname?"

I lied. "I c-can't remember."

Dumbledore looked like he believed me, or, at least, he didn't push the matter, and of this I was thankful, because I knew I was in no condition to put up mental barriers around my mind like Harry had thought me.

Harry.

I heaved my aching body up onto my elbows and squinted around the hospital wing, at the beds nearest to me, looking for him – but all the other beds were empty.

"Are you looking for someone?" Dumbledore asked, following my gaze.

I shook my head, confused. Where was Harry? We had been together, running through the Forest. Malfoy had appeared. He sent up a hoax Mark, showed us his Time Turner, told us his plan. It came rushing back in blinding flashes, like photographs and punches. Death Eaters. Harry lying on the ground. Me, hiding under the cloak. Lucius, Bellatrix, Him, Harry ...

A green light exploded behind my eyes and I felt cold all over. My arms gave way and I fell back down onto the pillows.

"We appear to be alone." Dumbledore was still searching the room. He shot me a piercing look. "Are we?"

"Yes," I whispered. Ice was coursing through my veins, icy blackness filling up the void left by Harry. I curled up in a little ball beneath the covers but nothing could stem the flow of cold. "Yes. I'm all alone now."

*** * ***

Dumbledore came back to talk to me the next day. I answered his questions on autopilot, monosyllabic, until we came to the subject of my name– or lack of. I tried to feel guilty for lying to Dumbledore, but I could not. I could not feel anything, not even grief for Harry. I was numb.

"I'm sorry sir," I apologised again. "I can't remember."

"That might prove to be problematic," Dumbledore remarked with a small chuckle. "Do you remember anything else about yourself? How you came to be in the Forbidden Forest, for instance?"

I shook my head. Dumbledore was only trying to help me, but I couldn't tell him the truth. Hermione had told me about wizards who had been imprisoned for meddling with time. I could not afford to be sent to Azkaban. I knew I would have to tell him someday – how else was I going to get home? But I planned to hold on to my secret, the reason for my travel, for as long as possible. Right now, I needed Dumbledore to think I was just a little lost girl, a threat to nobody.

"What do you remember, Ginny?" Dumbledore surveyed over his interlinked fingers.

I shifted around in the bed and was pleasantly surprised when my ribs didn't hurt. "Well …" I began carefully. "I'm sixteen … I like Chocolate Frogs …" I trailed off. There was nothing else I could say without creating new questions, questions I couldn't answer.

"As do I," Dumbledore said with a wink. "Though I find myself more partial to Bulls' Eyes." To avoid suspicion, I asked him what Bulls' Eyes were, and learned they were a Muggle sweet, hard-boiled, with a minty flavour. He offered me one and I declined politely. "Now, Ginny," he said in a more serious voice. "We have quite a situation on our hands here, as I'm sure you'll understand. What do you think we should do about it?"

I thought for a moment. I had to stay at Hogwarts. It was the only place I knew, and Dumbledore was there. So long as I was with Dumbledore, I was safe. At Hogwarts, I could get a grasp of the situation, gather information on Riddle and his current whereabouts, and then formulate a plan for his destruction.

"I suppose I could stay here, sir," I said hesitantly. "Until I've recovered …"

"Of course you shall stay here until you're recovered. It is what happens next that I am concerned with," Dumbledore said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I glanced around me, unsure of how to play my cards. In the end I opted for ignorance. "This is a school, right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "A school, correct."

"A school of magic?"

Dumbledore fixated me with that searching look of his. I tried not to act culpable. "Are you a Witch, Ginny?" he inquired directly.

"Yes, sir … But I don't have a wand."

"Why not?" Dumbledore inquired, his expression unreadable.

"I suppose I lost it," I confessed. It was not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Somehow, I figured he would doubt my sanity if I told him that it had been wrested from my bloody fingers by a werewolf hungry for my flesh and then broken cleanly in two during the proceeding fight that had lead to my escape and the said werewolf's death at the hands of my former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "You _suppose _you lost it?"

I hung my head. "I lost it."

Meekly, I waited for his judgement.

"In that case, we shall have to make a trip to Diagon Alley and furnish you with a new one." I just stared at him, incapable of speech. Dumbledore smiled warmly and his eyes twinkled, just like Future-Dumbledore. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Ginny."

"Thank you, sir," I breathed. "I'll do good. I will."

"I'm sure you will," he said. There was something about his tone that suggested that he suspected I would 'do good' in more than just my NEWTS. For some strange reason, I wasn't worried by this. It was almost comforting. Dumbledore stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go and inform Headmaster Dippet that you are awake. When you have your wand, we can set about assessing your standard of magic and decide on a suitable year for you."

"When will I get my wand, sir?" I asked, my voice urgent. Just the thought of holding a wand again made my fingers tingle. Without my wand, I didn't feel quite whole.

"As soon as Madame MacDuff, our matron, deems you fit enough for such excitement." Right on cue, a motherly-looking woman in robes like Madame Pomfrey's came bustling up the ward to my bed. She put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips, frowning at Dumbledore from under the brim of her tartan-rimmed hat. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

"'Tis indeed, Albus," agreed Madame MacDuff fervently in her thick Scottish accent. Inwardly, I groaned. Just like Madame Pomfrey, I knew this Madame MacDuff was not going to let me out for love nor money. Dumbledore smiled good-naturedly at her, tipped his hat and turn to stride down the hospital when I called out to him. It had suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't the faintest idea what year it was.

"Professor?"

Dumbledore paused. "Yes, Ginny."

"What – um – what year is it?"

"Why, 'tis 1943, duckie," clucked Madame MacDuff. "Poor lamb. She doesn't even remember the year."

I felt like my insides had turned to ice. Slowly, I fell back against my pillows. Dread filled me, pumping through my veins until every cubic inch of me was covered in an icy sweat.

"Duckie?"

I could hear voices calling me from afar.

"Ginny?"

1943. He would be here.

Darkness ate away at my vision. Draco Malfoy's last words echoed in my ears, reverberating around my skull, shattering the ice around my heart and kindling a baby flame deep within my belly.

_He killed my mother … Kill him _

"All right, Draco," I whispered into the blackness, a small smile spreading across my face. "All right."

* * *

Okay. Chapter One is up. I hope to get right into the thick of things in the next one, so bear with me please!

Cheers, Plonksie.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **Surprisingly, I haven't acquired the rights to Harry Potter between now and the posting of the last chapter.

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER ONE:  
_

_**KellyCullen**_ – love you too! Thanks for the generous praise

_**confused-Luna**_ – thanks! I will! (I just have!)

_**vlucia**_ – why thank you. I think I'm not alone in despising people who posted their twaddle without performing a simple spellcheck!

_**livvie333**_ – oh! I'm happy you think it's happy. Or am I barking up the wrong tree and were you being sarcastic?

_**Ginny**_ – well, here's more! Knock yourself out!

_**littleNK**_ – yeah, I thought Draco and Snape needed some acknowledgment. I always thought Snape was good, even after the HBP. LOL on the name. I love that movie

_**kaarmae**_ – well, wait no further my fine reviewer. Here it is

* * *

Beta'd by the fantastic_** pop-pop-bananas**_

**

* * *

FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Two

_  
Every whisper of every waking hour I'm  
Choosing my confessions  
Trying to keep an eye on you  
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool  
Oh no, I've said too much ...  
I_'_m losing my religion  
Trying to keep up with you  
And I don't know if I can do it_  
'Losing My Religion' – R.E.M.

.

(_Ginny_)

September the first came and went without me as I lay behind screens in the hospital wing under Madame MacDuff's keen eye. The hustle and bustle of school seeped in through the open door but, for the first time, I wasn't eager to rejoin my peers. I wasn't scared to be with again, or so I convinced myself, but I was willing to postpone our meeting until I had regained my strength. Madame MacDuff said I was improving constantly and I soon grew bored of the confines of the wing, so when Dumbledore sent word on Friday afternoon saying, if Madame MacDuff permitted it, he would personally escort me to Diagon Alley to purchase a new wand and the rest of the necessary supplies for the new term, I was ecstatic; not even the prospect of Riddle could dampen my spirits.

"Please can I go?" I begged Madame MacDuff, who was scanning the letter with pursed lips. "I feel so much better, honest. I promise not to over exert myself. I'll be with Dumbledore, he'll make sure I don't."

"Ach oh … All right then," conceded Madame MacDuff, smiling at me over the top of the letter. "But mind you be careful with yourself, duckie."

"I will."

"And I supposed you'll be wanting to start your schooling on Monday?"

I nodded. "I was hoping to … If that's okay with you, of course," I added quickly to mollify her. "If you think I'm ready."

Madame MacDuff considered the matter. "Well, if you continue to come to me for your medicine, I don't see why not."

Jubilant, I thanked her and readily promised to come straight to the hospital wing if I felt weak at any time. I was more than ready for Dumbledore the following morning. He said he would collect me from the Hospital Wing at eleven o'clock, but it was already half-past and he hadn't shown up. I knew he wasn't the type to be late or forget. I felt a sudden rush of trepidation. Something was wrong.

My foreboding feelings were confirmed when Dumbledore came hurrying down the ward at quarter to twelve. "Ginny." He came straight to me. His voice was rushed and his eyes were distracted. "I am afraid I can no longer accompany you to Diagon Alley. However, I have found you a replacement escort. Be sure to be back before dark."

I nodded, swallowing. "Of course, Professor … Has something happened?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. Nothing we weren't expecting, but we cannot deny it is a blow. The timing ..."

"What happened, sir?" I asked without thinking.

Dumbledore fixed me with his x-ray stare. "I have no time for questions now, Ginny. Perhaps later." I watched Dumbledore hurry back up the ward and out of sight and trepidation tingled up my spine. What ever had happened, I knew it was big. And bad.

Very bad.

As I waited for my replacement escort, I racked my brains, trying to think of everything that had happened in the 1940's. But the Muggle war, the Chamber of Secrets and the last time the Chudley Canons won the league were the only things I could come up with without research. Seventh Years studied Contemporary Wizarding History, and I had never even started Sixth. I hadn't even gotten the results of my OWLs. By the beginning of August last year, the time the results came out, I was running for my life with a trail of corpses in my wake.

"Er – 'ello."

I spun around and stared.

A teenage Hagrid, impossibly big and extremely awkward, was standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing.

"Oh. Hi, Hagrid," I greeted him enthusiastically. Maybe too enthusiastically seeing as this Hagrid, Past-Hagrid, didn't know me very well. "I'm waiting my escort to Diagon Alley. Dumbledore's busy so he can't take me. D'you want to wait with me."

Hagrid shuffled awkwardly down the ward. "I–l'm yehr escort. I hope yeh don't mind," he added anxiously, going a little red. "Professor Dumbledore, he asked me ter."

"Don't mind?" I repeated, incredulous. "No, not at all. It's great. C'mon, let's go." I practically skipped over to the Assistant Gamekeeper, thoroughly relieved my guide was not a grumpy old Professor and shamelessly excited to be spending the day in Diagon Alley, and with Hagrid of all people.

Hagrid pulled a chipped tin mug from his pocket. "This's a Portkey. It'll take us there an' back."

"Great," I repeated, smiling brightly. "Great."

'_Great_' just about summed up our day. By the time we got home, I knew exactly why Harry, Ron and Hermione loved Hagrid so much. He was big, but he had to be because his heart would not have fit into a smaller body. Diagon Alley was surprisingly similar to how I remembered it and the tiny cobbled streets were thronged with Saturday shoppers. Hagrid pointed out various people to me, former Hogwarts students and other people of note.

"I dunno many Ravenclaws now," he conceded when I asked him if he knew many present students. "Or Slytherins. But I don't wan' ter know them. Yeh don't either, Ginny. They're trouble, the lot of 'em." His voice was bitter, the wounds of Slytherin's Heir still fresh.

"Any Slytherin in particular, or just them all?" I probed discretely.

"The lot of 'em," Hagrid repeated forcibly.

"Got it. Steer clear of Slytherin. Aye-aye, Cap'n."

Hagrid's frown relented a little and we went for an ice-cream. As we were sitting outside the ice-cream parlour slurping on huge chocolate and raspberry ice-creams with chopped nuts, I spotted a discarded copy of the _Daily Prophet_ lying on the table next to ours. Reaching over, I picked it up and shook it open.

_TROUBLE BREWING IN THE EAST_

screamed the headline. Below it, the subheading read

_Romanian Ministry succumbs to Grindelwald_

I gasped. So this was what distracted Dumbledore. Grindelwald.

"Ginny? Yeh okay? Yeh've very pale."

I nodded, then shook my head, then nodded again, confused. "Yeah … I'm okay," I breathed. The picture below the subheading showed a burning village. The photograph was black and white but I could feel the heat of the red fire on my limbs as though it burned right beside me. The paper fell from my hands.

"Yeh're shaking," Hagrid said quietly, concern evident in his voice. "C'mon. I'll take yeh back ter the castle."

I shook my head, resolute. "My wand,"

"What?"

"My wand," I repeated. "I need to get a wand. I'm not leaving without it."

Hagrid didn't look happy, but he agreed. "Yeh get yehr wand, but then I'm takin' yeh home." We left our ice-creams half-eaten and hurried to Ollivanders. Hagrid's bulk proved useful in the crowded street; he cut a path through the shoals of people like a Niffler through freshly-turned earth. In no time we stood at the very end of the street, outside the shabby shop. A faded silk cushion sat in the window, a wand lying upon it, the exact same one I had seen when I came to buy my first wand with my mother.

I bit my lip. My mother was dead now.

"Can I help you?" Ollivander asked the moment we entered the shop.

I nodded. My throat was suddenly dry. "I would like to buy a wand, please," I said obviously.

"Well, you have come to the right place."

I looked around me at the crammed shelves, nodding. "Yes, well, this is a wand shop."

Hagrid gave a snort of laughter, which he hastily turned into a cough when Mr. Ollivander shot him a disapprovingly look.

"Is this your first wand?" he asked me, scrutinising me. His milky eyes penetrated me like Dumbledore's, but they did not twinkle with warmth. Goosebumps sprang up my arms but I held his gaze.

"Second, sir."

"And what did your first consist of?" he questioned, twiddling his long fingers. "You did not buy it here, I know, for I do not recognise you." It was almost an accusation.

"Holly. Eight and a half inches. Unicorn hair." I rattled off the old details without trouble. I knew them like the back of my hand.

Mr. Ollivander stared at me, his pale eye popping. "Could you repeat yourself, Miss …?"

"Ginny," I told him firmly. "Miss Ginny."

"Ginny." He rolled the name around his mouth, as though testing it. "Could you repeat yourself, Ginny?"

"My wand was made of holly. It was eight and half inches long and had a core of unicorn tail hair."

"Curious," Mr. Ollivander murmured. "Very curious."

"Why?"

"Because I have a wand of that very description in this shop. Never before have I ever heard of two wands made to the exact same particulars. Never."

I panicked.

What if Ollivander told Dumbledore? Harry had mentioned they kept in contact. Quickly, I sought to cover up my tracks. "Well – eh – I might – em – have made a mistake on some of the details …" I trailed off lamely. It was obvious that he didn't believe me. I was usually a good liar, with six older brothers I needed to be, but his eyes – I couldn't fool those eyes, not even with my Occlumency shields fully functional.

"You seemed very sure those details to me, Miss," Mr. Ollivander said quietly. He handed me a long narrow box. "Your wand."

I felt a sudden rush of warmth as I wrapped my fingers around holly wand once again. I raised it high above my head and cried the first spell that came into my head.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

A silver vixen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, burst forth from my wand, twisting and turning around the tiny room, filling the dingy shop with pure light. Hagrid cheered and even Mr. Ollivander gave a polite little clap.

"Curious," he murmured under his breath, extracting the wand from my grip. "Very curious."

I pulled out the moneybag Dumbledore had given me. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Most of my books were second hand, but that was nothing new. "How much?" I asked Mr. Ollivander, a little apprehensive. There wasn't that much gold left and I could not bear the thought of having to find a different wand.

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no." Mr. Ollivander shook his head, his pale eyes never leaving mine. "This is your wand, Miss Ginny." He spared me a secret smile. "This is _your_ wand."

I thanked him sincerely and the moment we left, Mr. Ollivander closed the shop.

"What happened in there?" Hagrid asked me as we retreated into a back alley, landed with purchases, and pulled out the Portkey. "Why was he sayin' _curious_? What's curious?"

"I have no idea," I lied with a shrug. I felt no guilt lying to him; sometimes the truth isn't worth it.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

I saw Dumbledore on Sunday evening for my assessment. None of it taxed me much and Dumbledore pronounced I was eligible for either Sixth Year or Seventh Year. "Though, I think you should go with Sixth Year," he advised me. "For though your wand magic is advanced, there are holes in your knowledge of theory and technique. Also, it would be more age appropriate."

I agreed quickly. He would be in Sixth Year.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Excellent. And now onto our second housekeeping matter. What are we to do about your name?"

"What's wrong with it?" I asked, a little sharper than I had meant to. I liked my name. It was unique, the one thing I shared with no one.

"You don't have one."

"Yes I do," I protested. "Ginny."

"But what about a _sur_name?"

"Oh. Yes." I felt stupid. "Will that be a problem?"

"A fixable one," Dumbledore amended, smiling. "Are you sure you can't remember anything?"

I grimaced, squirming uncomfortably under his clear blue gaze. "No sir," I lied cleanly. "I don't. Sorry."

"No matter," Dumbledore reassured me with a kindly smile. "We shall simply have to give you a new name. Perhaps an Irish one, given your hair colour. How about MacKenna?"

I agreed. It was as good a cover story as any and I knew a good bit about Ireland from time I had spent hanging out with Seamus while I was going out with Dean. "MacKenna, MacKenna," I muttered to myself, trying it on for size. It had a ring to it. "MacKenna. I like it."

"Good," Dumbledore said. "I shall speak to Professor Dippet about assigning you a timetable and organising a suitable time for your Sorting. I suggest you get some rest, Miss MacKenna. Tomorrow will be a trying day for us all."

I lay awake that night, unable to sleep. The same thing had happened the night before I started Hogwarts for the very first time. But that night had been different. I had spent it writing in my diary, unable to sleep, dizzy with excitement and drunk with fear. Tonight no excitement danced along my bones like electricity. I was scared. Last time we had played on my home turf; he had invaded my life. This time I had invaded his. And this time Harry was not around to save me should things turn nasty. And I knew they would. They always did. He had the home advantage – but I had advantages too. I was no longer a gullible little girl who could be easily manipulated. The war had toughed me and taught me and I knew all his tricks. I knew all about him, whereas he knew nothing about me. And that was how it was going to stay. I would be sorted into Slytherin. I was not a Malfoy or Black – they wouldn't notice me. And when their guards were down, I would strike. No one would see it coming. It would have to be with a knife or a poison of some kind; I would never be able to cast the Killing Curse. I would watch as his life ebbed away like the tide, and he would turn to me and ask why.

"Because I can," I whispered into the darkness. "Because I can."

That is what he had said when we waited together in the Chamber of Secrets. He held my hand and I lay with my head in his lap. His words were sweet poison in my ears as he urged me to sleep, promising me I would wake up and that he would still be there. I swallowed his lies like a dog dying to please its master. Obediently, I closed my eyes.

In my private blackness, his promises melted away and I could finally see clearly, but it was too late. With my last breath, I looked up into his beautiful face, a little girl, dying in the dark and the damp, and asked why.

He cradled me close, stroking back my hair, his touch velvet against my skin, and like a lover he whispered, _because I can_.

At sixteen years old, he was already dead inside.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

Madame MacDuff gave me a freshly laundered school uniform in the morning. "Professor Dumbledore will be along for you shortly," she told me, pouring one of the many medicinal potions I had to take into a small cup. She handed me the cup. "Drink that, duckie, and get yourself dressed."

I dressed quickly in the familiar uniform and, slipping my feet into shoes, stared at myself in the mirror. I did not recognise the girl who looked back. The weeks spent under Madame MacDuff's care had restored my figure after a year of constant running and fighting and beneath my uniform it curved, soft and full. My hair shone a rich red and my skin was free of scrapes and bruises. Inside, I was still bandaged, but on the outside I had healed. My reflection proved this, proved that it was possible– proved that, in time, I could heal. I stopped shaking. I felt confident, sure of myself, ready for anything. Truly, I was a new person.

With expert ease, I reached up and teased my hair back into a ponytail. Scars, livid and red, stood out against my throat. I dropped the ponytail, hiding the evidence. I examined myself in the mirror, but every way I turned I felt the scars burning bright. They were laughing at me, anchoring me in the past I needed to change. Hot needles prickled behind my eyes and my hands shook. My vision clouded with tears, and suddenly everything became clear.

I could fool the world, pretend I was just a normal girl with my clear skin and bright hair, but I could not fool myself. No matter what I did, I couldn't erase the past, I could only change the future.

Slowly, I raised my wand. Muttering the incantation for a Glamour charm, I pointed it at my throat and the wounds vanished. But if anyone touched my throat, they would feel them there. I could not wave my wand and make Fenrir Greyback's marks fade from my flesh, I could not erase them. I could only change them.

Once again, I scraped my hair back– and then let it down once more. I pulled on a lock of it. Deep red, it was Weasley hair. Trademark Weasley hair. And I wasn't a Weasley anymore. With fresh tears in my eyes, I pointed my wand at my head. The second glamour charm turned my hair a meek, ashy blonde. To complete my transformation, I altered the size of my clothing, engorging my jumper so it hung off my frame like an old sheet. I pulled my hands up inside the overlong sleeves and lost myself inside the fabric.

Dumbledore said nothing about the changes in my appearance when he collected me and I felt a rush of gratitude towards him for it. "Where are we going?" I asked quietly as he led me out of the hospital wing. The corridor was deserted; class was in session.

"To Headmaster Dippet's office," he told me. According to Madame MacDuff Professor Dippet had been down to see me once when I first came in, but after that he had transferred all responsibility to Dumbledore. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind. I got the impression he was very interested in me, and, more importantly, how I had come to be here.

"Why?" I inquired further. "I thought you were looking after me?"

"You need to be sorted into a House before you can start attending lessons. It is a Hogwarts tradition." Dumbledore proceeded to give a speech much like the one McGonagall had delivered in my First Year, telling me all about the different Houses, the qualities of the people in them, their histories and so on. But I wasn't listening. I had completely forgotten about the Sorting. Dumbledore would put the Hat on my head and it would see everything inside my head. My plan – what if it told Dumbledore? Perhaps it was obliged to inform the Headmaster if a mysterious girl appeared out of nowhere with the intention of murdering one of the students. And what House would it put me in? I needed to be in Slytherin. It was as simple as that. There was no way I would be able to get close enough to him to kill him if I was in Gryffindor. No Slytherin, especially the Heir himself, would ever associate with a Gryffindor.

But how to convince the Hat to put me in Slytherin? Maybe if I asked it nicely? Or thought Slytherin thoughts?

Too soon we had arrived at the stone gargoyle stone that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. "Hogwarts," Dumbledore announced crisply. _Hogwarts? _Not the most imaginative password, that's for sure. I climbed the stationary steps and stood behind Dumbledore as he knocked on the door.

"Come in," called a feeble voice. Dumbledore opened the door and stood back to allow me enter. Instantly my eyes jumped to the small differences between what the office looked like now and what it had looked like when Dumbledore had occupied it. There were no fiddly silver instruments, no ruby-encrusted sword in a glass case, no Fawkes the phoenix. It seemed cold and dark despite the fire burning in the grate. Nervously, I hovered in front of the large desk, unsure whether to sit down or remain standing.

"Yes, Albus? What did this one do?" Dippet asked Dumbledore in a wheezy voice, scrutinising me over through his spectacles. He was a very old man with sparse grey hair and bony fingers.

"This is Ginevra MacKenna," Dumbledore informed him. "Our mystery student, Armando, if you remember. I have assessed her magical ability and she will fit perfectly into out Sixth Year. Madame MacDuff feels she is ready to start school, as do I, but first Miss MacKenna needs to be sorted into a House."

"Sorted. Of course, of course," rasped Dippet. "Of course." He gave his wand an edgy little flick. A bundle of greying fabric floated down from a high shelf and onto Headmaster's desk. The Sorting Hat.

"Sit down, please, Ginny," Dumbledore instructed me. Stiffly I lowered myself onto one of hard-backed chairs sitting in front of Dippet's desk. He picked up the Hat and straightened it out. It looked slightly better than it had when I tried it on first. "This is the Sorting Hat. It will sort you in the House that suits you best. Just try to relax and let it do its job." He dropped the Hat onto my head. It fell down over my eyes and I couldn't see a thing.

"Well, well, well," said a snide voice inside my head. "Another Weasley. My my, have I seen a lot of your family over the years." The Hat gave little chuckle.

"I'm not a Weasley," I hissed. "I'm a MacKenna." I paused for a moment and then said, "And I have to be in Slytherin."

There was no point in beating about the bush.

"Why?" asked the Hat.

"Um … because I'm ambitious."

"I can see that," said the Hat. "But you do not yearn for power. What_ do_ you want?"

I paused. What did I want? "To see my family again," I said quietly. "I want to live in a world where everybody doesn't hate and fear each other. I'm not asking for everyone to be friends, I'm just asking for no wars. I want to be loved and happy and bake apple tarts with my grandchildren. I want to go home."

"Ahh," sighed the Hat. "Home. And what are you willing to do to get home, Ginevra?"

"Anything."

The Hat stayed quiet for a long time. Then, "Be careful, Ginevra," it warned me. "You might get exactly what you want."

"What?" I didn't understand. What's wrong with wanting world peace?

The Hat didn't answer.

"_Slytherin!_"

Dumbledore pulled the Hat off my head and I tried to hide my expression of relief. "Slytherin," he said quietly. "A formidable choice. Be on your guard, Miss MacKenna."

"Nonsense, Albus," said Dippet wearily. "Slytherin are as good a House as any. Find one of the Sixth Year Prefects to take her down to Professor Slughorn. He can see about drawing up a timetable for her." He then turned to me, frowning slightly, "Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss MacKenna. I trust I will be hearing nothing but good things about you from your new teachers, or else I might just have to rethink allowing you stay here. We so rarely have foreign students join us."

I nodded. "Of course, sir. I'm very grateful and I promise I'll work hard."

"Very well. You may go." Dippet returned to his work, and Dumbledore and I left the office. A sudden fear gripped me – Dippet had told Dumbledore to get one of the Sixth Year Prefects.

He was a Prefect.

"Ginny? Are you feeling unwell?" Dumbledore asked me, peering shrewdly into my face.

I nodded quickly. "Fine, fine."

Dumbledore did not look convinced. "I see ... Ah! Mr. Black. Come here for a moment." He hailed a boy coming out of a classroom down the corridor. The boy sidled over to us. He was good-looking, with dark eyes that glimmered with mischief and black hair coerced into something someone might have called a hairstyle. I doubted girls spent that long on their hair. His shirt ruffled up flamboyantly into a high collar and was secured with a large purple and gold jewel pinned to his throat, his shoes were so shiny I could see my face in them, his silver and green tie nattily tied and he wore matching purple leather gloves with no fingers. His fingernails were perfectly rounded and looked polished. He smiled at me.

I blinked in shock.

A Slytherin? Smiling?

"Oh, Professor!" he exclaimed, splaying out his hands. "Plum is your colour. It brings out your eyes. Beautiful. Just beautiful." Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

Everything my mother ever told me about the rudeness of staring evaporated.

I stared.

"This is Ginevra MacKenna," Dumbledore said to boy. "She is a Hogwarts student and a Slytherin as of this morning. I am sure that you will make her feel very welcome." The emphasis he put on _you_ – as opposed to another Slytherin Sixth Year – was extremely obvious.

"It would be my pleasure," replied the boy. He spun on the spot to face me. "_Bonjuir,_ _mon chére_," he grinned with false French flair, stealing my hand and pressing it his lips. "_J'mappellle _Alphard Black. _Bienvenue en _Slytherin." Then he saw the state of my nails. And fainted. "Oh Sweet Merlin, look at these _talons!_" he screeched, snatching my hand and pulling me towards him. "How could you inflict such horror on your beautiful body? How could you? Never fear. Alphard is near. No, here. Oh dear … We shall soon do something about these." He brandished my hand at a passing Third Year. "Look at these! Do you see these! This is what happens when don't eat your broccoli. See these ridges? And those _cuticles_ – if you could call them that!" The Third Year recoiled. Quick as a flash, Alphard retrieved his wand from up his sleeve and began filing my nails. "I hope you don't mind, blondie, but something simply has to be done. This is cruel. Cruelty to nails." He smelt my hand. "You know, I have a hand cream you might like? Hmm? What do you say, blondie?" He looked up at me, wand between his teeth.

Torn between laughter and terror, I looked up at Dumbledore. He was chuckling to himself, his eyes twinkling. "I'll leave to you it," he said.

"_Au revoir_, Professor," Alphard called throatily, pulling a purple silk handkerchief out of a pocket and waving it after Dumbledore. "_Au revoir!_" He cocked his head and grinned at me again. His teeth were very white. "So, blondie? About that handcream. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. It smelts divine. Like peaches and cream. Come-come-come. Let us walk, you and I. Onward to class."

* * *

Chapter Two is up! I hope you liked it. What do people think of Alphard? You keep reviewing, I'll keep writing! Nah. I'll keep doing it anyway, but it's great to get feedback, positive and negative.

Cheers, Plonksie.


	3. Chapter Three

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER TWO  
_

Thank you all, my lovelies!

_**livvie333**_ – Ginny kinda had to be a Slytherin, didn't she? As for Hagrid ... Wait and see, my pretty, wait and see ...

_**cutieme012**_ – goodie goodie

_**Sophia Supernova**_ – that was one of the best reviews I've ever received. People write stories for people like you because we know you actually care. Thanks so much, seriously. Thanks

_**littleNK**_ – that was the aim of the game. I'm glad you found him funny. It would have been a serious crash and burn moment if people hand't (gulp)

_**Wallis K.**_ – ditto littleNK. I'm glad he worked for you; he's so fun to write

_**Kelly Cullen**_ – that's the point. But don't worry. I have red hair and I love it, so ...

_**Elizabeth Evans**_ – yeah. Alphard, in general, kicks ass. Nailsavers Inc. Maybe I should give him a cape and a theme song?_ Alph! Aha! Saviour of the Cuticles!

* * *

_

Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Three

_  
Welcome to the jungle  
We got fun and games  
We got everything you want  
Honey we know the names  
We are the people who can find  
Whatever you may need  
In the jungle, welcome to the jungle  
Wanna bring you to your knees_  
'Welcome To The Jungle' – Guns 'n' Roses

.

_(Ginny)_

Alphard paused for a moment, his tongue between his teeth as he filed the last of my nails to perfection. "There," he declared triumphantly. "Alphard's work here is done." He kissed my hand once more and pressed it back to me. "Well?" he demanded, his eyes flicking from my face to my fingers, indicating I should do the same. "How do you like your nails, blondie?"

I looked down. My nails were tapered and smoothened to Fleur's standards. "Thanks," I said awkwardly, not really sure how to react. "They're – um – really nice and stuff."

Alphard dabbed at his eyes with his purple handkerchief. "You're only saying that."

I shook my head. "No. Honestly. They're fine."

"Only _fine_?"

"No," I amended hurriedly, humouring him. "They're, um, lovely. I love them"

"As I do you," Alphard professed liberally.

"Thanks …"

"Don't mention it, blondie. Alphard loves everyone. Look!" He pulled me down a staircase into a corridor packed with students all heading to their next lesson. Almost every girl flashed some sort of greeting his way – but the boys gave him a wide berth, as if he was playing host to an infectious disease. Alphard seemed to find this rather amusing. "George, darling!" he cried out, rushing over a stiff-looking Ravenclaw. "Blue is your colour. It brings out your eyes."

The Ravenclaw almost had a heart attack.

"Leave me alone!" he squeaked, turning on his heel and charging down the corridor.

"See you at dinner Georgie-Pie!" Alphard trilled after him, standing on tiptoe and waving at the Ravenclaw's rapidly departing back with his handkerchief. As soon as George disappeared from view, he ducked down into an alcove, snorting with laughter. I hovered close, perplexed.

"Must you be so conspicuous?" An angry female voice hissed from behind me, almost making me jmup. I turned around to see a girl of around my age glaring daggers at Alphard. With a head of perfect honey-brown curls, plump pink lips and rosy cheeks, she looked just like a cherub. She could have been very pretty, had she not been scowling viciously. The look in her dark eyes was sour and cold.

"Honestly, Alphard. Sometimes I think you actually enjoy this!"

"Of course I enjoy it," Alphard whispered back, pausing momentarily to flash a passing Hufflepuff boy an appreciative thumbs up. The boy tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away. "I'm having the most fun I've had in years. And you really look smashing today. Did you do something with your hair? No, wait, let me guess. New lipstick?"

"Don't change the subject," snapped the girl.

"Me?" Alphard gasped incredulously. "Never? No, but seriously, darling. It's new lipstick, isn't it?"

The girl gave a disapproving sniff and thrust her nose into the air. "I don't have time for this."

She spun on her heel and stalked off, her curls bouncing.

I raised my eyebrows. "What's her problem?"

"Don't mind Juliet, blondie," Alphard said in an uncharacteristically sombre voice. He gestured at his chest. "It still hurts. The human heart, they say, is like a large ___."

"How so?"

Alphard tapped his nose knowingly. "Ridiciously easy to break and nigh impossible to piece back together. Trust me, blondie. I would know." His smile faltered as he followed the girl's progress down the packed corridor. "I would know. I do have to live with her. Oh well," he rallied, clapping his hands together. "Girls. Can't live with them, can't live without them. There'd be no one else to borrow curling tongs from! Come-come-come, blondie. My honey pots are calling. It's lunch time."

Linking our arms, Alphard led me down to the Great Hall through a series of achingly familiar secret passages. As I walked I felt whispers run by me, snatches of conversation and shouts of stifled laughter. We had always used these passages – Harry, Ron, Hermione and I. Even Neville and Dean knew a few. I remembered showing one to Luna at the beginning of our Fourth Year. I hadn't thought it a big deal but her face shone like the sun when I offhandedly mentioned that I only showed my friends the secrets Fred and George had shown me.

"Blondie?" Alphard's voice pulled me back to reality. "Are you all right? You look very pale."

"M-me?" I blustered. "I– I'm all right. Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be all right?" My tone must have sharpened because Alphard took a step back from me, holding up his hands.

"I see. You're all right. You are pale though." He sighed. "You have such lovely skin. It's so clear. I know girls who would kill for your complexion. _I_ would kill for your complexion! But, question is, would it suit my hair? Pale skin, dark hair– that look's already taken, unfortunately... "

Alphard's chatter faded as a hollow ringing filled my ears. I could feel footsteps reverberating around inside me, mine, Alphard's and all those who had walked these passages once upon time, those who never walk them again.

Unless I succeeded.

I didn't know I had stopped walking. Suddenly fingers were coming at me through the semi-darkness and I screamed. I couldn't help myself. I stumbled backwards, hitting the wall. I was gasping for breath as if I'd run a marathon. My hands gripped my knees as my chest heaved. My limp hair slithered down over my shoulders to hang in front of my face like a protective curtain. If only I could pull a curtain shut behind my eyes.

"Here. Ginevra."

I looked up. Alphard was holding out his handkerchief.

"Hey, hey," he whispered. "Hey. No need for screams. Old Alphard isn't going to hurt you. Love your complex darling, but you don't float this boat." He took my hand and pressed the handkerchief into it.

Gratefully I took it and dabbed at my face. It came away wet. I had been crying.

"I would say it's going to be all right," he said quietly, "but I think I would be lying. If you need anything, just say so. Never fear. Alphard's here."

"Thanks," I croaked, offering him back the handkerchief.

"You can keep it."

"I'll wash it and have it back to you," I promised, folding it up carefully.

Alphard shook his head. "No, no. It's yours for all eternity. Excuse my French, blondie, but it seems to Alphard like you're going to be needing it."

I bit my lip, fighting a smile. "If you insist."

Alphard scrunched it up into a ball and pushed it under my cuff, like my mother did with scraps of tissue. "I do," he grinned. "Come come come. You look like you could do with a decent meal, blondie. You're too thin. Where are you from? Liverpool?"

"Ireland, actually," I told him, testing the ice with my new lie strapped to my feet.

"Ooohh …" Alphard gasped excitedly. "Ireland. I love Ireland! I love green! Have you ever met a Leprechaun? They may be small but they have some fashion sense. I really don't think anyone else would get away with wearing red jackets and red hair at the same time! I mean, talk about _clashing_." Alphard's prattle on Leprechauns and their style savvy carried us all the way into the Great Hall. I went to sit down at the Slytherin table in the first empty space I saw but Alphard shook his head and waved me on down the table. I didn't understand – the last quarter of the table had plenty of free spaces yet he was shooing me up to where people were crowded together.

"Why can't I sit there?" I complained. "It's free."

"Because your place is here," Alphard answered me shiftily, presenting me with an empty space beside the curly-haired girl from earlier. "Greetings, fair Juliet," he crowed, sliding down onto the bench beside Juliet. "How doth my lady this morning?"

Juliet scowled. She did not look at Alphard but glared down at the small cluster of people sitting at the end of the table. "It's afternoon."

"How doth my lady this afternoon, then?" Alphard amended cheerfully, disembowelling a roll and buttering it up. "Here," he said depositing the buttered roll on my side-plate. "Eat up, blondie. Oh ho now, where are my manners. Introductions! Jules, blondie – blondie, Jules. I just know you two will be bosom buddies."

Juliet didn't even look at me.

I picked up the roll and dipped it into my soup. "Thanks," I said warmly, smiling at Alphard. I didn't see why Juliet was being so cold; he was only being friendly. I wondered what he was doing in Slytherin. Desipte being a Black, he didn't exactly come across as Slytherin material.

"Don't ever say that," Juliet said sharply, eyes on me for the first time.

I frowned. "My mother taught me to always say thank you."

She scowled back at me. "You're in Slytherin, now. You'll keep your thank yous to yourself if you know what's good for you."

Alphard made a face at her. "Claws in, Jules. She's only fresh blood."

"She's got to learn sometime," retorted Juliet snootily. "T.I.S., Alphard. There is no room for mistakes here." Her voice was so bitter I wondered if she ate lemons for breakfast.

"Being nasty isn't going to bring him back," Alphard said quietly. "And besides, scowling gives you wrinkles."

Juliet bristled. "I don't recall asking for your opinion, Black." She crossed her arms across her chest and twisted in her seat so that her back was to us. Why she didn't just get up and sit somewhere else, with her friends, was beyond me. There had to be more Sixth Years somewhere.

I scanned the table for the rest of my new year. Looking up and down the table, I saw the Slytherins were sitting in year groups. First Year sat nearest the Staff Table at the top of the Hall, then Second Years, and so on all the way up to Seventh Year. But at the opposite end of the table, the end nearest me, things were mixed up. A group of Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Years sat together apart from the rest of the table.

Rustling up the necessary bravery, I tapped Juliet on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but if you've got a problem, why don't you just go and sit somewhere else? With them, maybe?" And I indicated the group.

Juliet spun around in her seat and gawped at me. For a second I was worried I had grown an extra head. "_Sit somewhere else?_" she choked, as if I had suggested she strip and dance a highland fling up and down the staff table for Professor Dippet.

"Take it easy, Juliet," Alphard warned, leaning over me to get at Juliet. "Just breathe, darling. Breathe in and out." He made deep breathing motions. "In and out, Jules. In and out." He clapped his hands on her shoulders, but Juliet knocked him aside. She was still staring at me. I squirmed a little, uncomfortable under her gaze.

"What school did you attend before Hogwarts?" she asked in her snappy, high-pitched voice.

I regurgitated my pre-prepared lie. "I wasn't in a school. I was home-schooled."

Alphard and Juliet bought it, hook, line and sinker.

"Drop dead!" Alphard exclaimed, flapping his hand at me. "You're such a tease, blondie."

"I'm serious," I protested, trying to look it too.

"_Drop dead._"

"I– I don't really want to."

Alphard gazed at me like I was the cutest, fluffiest little animal he had ever seen. It was slightly unnerving. "Oh, _bless_," he purred. "She doesn't know what drop dead means… "

"Are you being serious about being home-schooled?" Juliet asked me incredulously.

I nodded. "Serious."

Juliet frowned. "Serious?"

"Juliet. The child does not know what drop dead means. Obviously, she was home schooled," Alphard deadpanned. Juliet ignored him.

"So you know nothing about Slytherin?" she pressed.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Nothing about how we do things here?"

"Nothing," I parroted.

A smile spread slowly across Juliet's features, lighting up her whole face. She was very pretty when she smiled. "Well, I shall have to show you around, shan't I?" She held out her hand. "My name's Juliet Montague." Her handshake was lukewarm, just like her smile.

"We," corrected Alphard. "You can count on us, blondie. We'll show the ropes.

I swallowed. "Ropes?"

Alphard winked. "Ropes indeed. And the pullies and racks and thumbscrews and whips. All waiting for you. We will be your tour guides. Any questions, go no further than your old uncle Alphardo, an– "

"Yes, yes," Juliet snapped impatiently. "We." Then she turned to me and started talking very, very fast. "The first thing you have to learn about Slytherin is there is a Hierarchy. An order. A specific ways things are done. You must not go against this order, not matter what happens."

"Except if it's a matter of life or death," Alphard cut in.

"No." Juliet gave her head one sharp shake. "No. You must never go against the order. Ever. The order dictates everything. For example, look around you. Look down our table and then look at Ravenclaw. Notice any differences?"

I told what I had already realised. "Slytherins sit in year groups and Ravenclaws don't."

"Exactly. You must only ever sit with your year group."

"Then why's your year group up there?" I pointed at the top of the table. Juliet slapped my hand out of the air.

"No pointing," she snapped.

"Sorry," I apologised meekly. "But why are they there and you here?"

"We're the outcasts," Alphard explained promptly. He sounded proud of it, and my respect for him rose. But judging by the look on Juliet's face, she certainly was anything but proud of her social status.

"Why?"

"I like boys," Alphard announced loudly. "_Like _like them."

The Fifth and Seventh Year sitting near us (more outcasts, I guessed) all shifted away from Alphard, looks of exaggerated disgust on their faces. I didn't know why they bothered. Then I saw them all shooting glances down the table at the cluster of Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Years. They were watching them for a reaction to their reaction to Alphard's statement, all of them hoping to earn brownie points for shunning their fellow outcast.

It was pathetic.

"_Alphard!_" Juliet groaned.

Alphard clapped his hands to his mouth in horror. "Quick!" he gasped. "Stab me with your butterknife!"

"No," I exclaimed. When I didn't move, Juliet pulled me with her, sighing in exasperation. "What was that for?" I demanded.

"We may be outcasts," Juliet said coldly, affronted by my lack of gratitude for her yanking me down the seat. "But you are not. Yet."

I looked down the table at the cluster. Not one of them had even looked up. "And what if I want to be an outcast?" I asked.

"No one wants to be an outcast," Juliet said darkly. "Except Alphard."

Alphard winked at me. "Except _moi_."

"Why?" I asked, curious.

"You say why, Blondie. I say why not," he answered cryptically.

Juliet was scowling again. I got the impression that she had once sat at the end of the table in the cluster and that it had not been a pleasant parting. I quickly changed the subject. "So? The people down there? Who are they, exactly?"

"They're the Hierarchy," Alphard answered in a mysterious voice. "They are the cream of the crop. The very _crème de la crème_, if you wish to continue the metaphor. I quite like cream, especially on apple pie, so I think it using it to refer to a confederacy of dunces such as our charming Hierarchy is a little deeming to cream as whole. Personally, as a metaphor, I feel it fails to encapsulate the essence of– "

"Shut up, Alphard," Juliet ordered. She turned to me, a bossy glint in her eye. "The Hierarchy are the ruling class here."

"In Slytherin?" I guessed.

"The school," Juliet corrected me with a sniff.

"But the teachers?" I looked from the supposed Hierarchy, all huddled at the end of the Slytherin table, as far away from the staff table as possible, up to the long table where the teachers sat.

"Hierarchy, Teachers, Slytherins," Alphard illustrated his words with a diagram made of knives and forks and salt cellars, but he didn't need to. I understood. "Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, scum–– "

" –including blood traitors, half-breeds, mudbloods, squibs," Juliet extrapolated.

" –and Gryffindors," Alphard finished. "But in all honestly, blondie, the real scum floats to the top."

I understood that too.

"So who's on top?" I asked.

"It changes," Juliet said. "The Hierarchy has a hierarchy of its own. An internal order."

"You add up how pure your blood is, how much money your family has and how much power your father has," Alphard informed me brightly. The higher your score, the higher up you are. Quite ingenious, you must say."

I said nothing, but grinned at his sarcasm when Juliet's back was turned. "Most of them are harmless, really," he told me consolingly, his arm draped around my shoulders. I didn't mind the contact. It was comforting. "The idiot Quidditch players – Warrington, Flint and Travers – and the weakling sycophants – Mulciber, Borgin and Vaisey. But there are some you should watch out for."

"Such as?" I squinted down at the self-declared Hierarchy. Dotted among them were features I recognised – there was definitely a Crabbe there, and a Nott, another Black or two, a Malfoy and someone who might have been a Zabini.

"Oh, anyone bigger than you, stronger than you, faster than you, smarter than you, better at magic than you and nastier than you," Alphard said lightly. "Which is basically all of them." When Juliet resumed her glaring, he pointed at a pale boy with dishwater blonde hair. "Nott may look like a pansy but you'll be hard-pushed to get within ten feet of him without being hexed into the next century. He's very fast. Avery and Rosier are a bit of a double act. It's rather sweet, I think. Dolohov and Rookwood are in constant competition over who's the madder. And, frankly, Travers is just a maniac."

"So you have to be good at magic to be high up?" I guessed.

"Oh no," Alphard shook his head fervently. "Oh no. You must be joking! Take my dear cousin, Orion Black, for instance." He pointed out a haughty black-haired boy sitting near the middle, completely disregarding his food in favour of a similarly dark-haired girl. His kissing technique was about as refined as Ron's. "And my sister, Walburga." Alphard pointed at the dark-haired girl. I grimaced. "They're only there because of their name. The pair of them haven't enough brains between them to outsmart a Flobberworm, as you can clearly see."

"I can."

"Moving swiftly on, then. Next up is Abraxas Malfoy, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch and Honorary President of the Slytherin's Male Prostitutes Guild." I snorted into my goblet of pumpkin juice. Alphard reached out to whack me on the back. Juliet's hawk-like eyes caught this and her eyes narrowed slightly. Alphard looked oddly guilty and removed his hand but Juliet had already turned away again.

I looked down the table at Abraxas Malfoy. He looked like every other Malfoy, right down to every last strand of silver-blonde hair. He sat with Orion Black on his left and a tall, attractive, dark-skinned person on his right. I thought of Draco and wondered where he was. If he was still alive.

"To Abraxas's left you can observe the worse half of the Zabini twins, Mercedes. Try not to confuse her with her brother Demetrius. They don't really like it that much and they tend to hold a grudge against anyone who gets it wrong more than a dozen times a month … Which is probably why they have no friends," Alphard added with a snigger.

"Where is Demetrius?" I asked. I could only see the back of one Zabini sitting amidst the cluster.

Alphard pursed his lips, thinking hard. "I know exactly where _he _is but I wouldn't risk hazarding a guess at who he's there _with_ … If you know what I mean."

"Our resident Casanova could hardly been seen at something as pedestrian as lunch," Juliet remarked scathingly. "What a wasted opportunity!"

"And last but not least, we have … Slevin Lestrange." Alphard paused before he said the name and shot Juliet a sideways look, but she preoccupied was gazing down at the stupid Hierarchy. I stifled a gasp at the sound of the name. _Lestrange? _Did that mean he was a relation of Rodolphus? His father, maybe? Or his uncle. I shuddered at the thought. "The human proof of the rule that you don't have to have brains to have power."

"Which one is he?" I asked quietly.

_Know thine enemy_.

Alphard pointed him out to me. Slevin Lestrange was tall, dark and handsome with the tanned skin and sharp cheekbones of one of the Slavic race. He was sitting at the very center of the little cluster.

" …but he isn't actually in charge at all, which is quite humorous," Alphard was saying. He pointed out another person to me. "She's in charge."

_She_ was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. She looked like a princess from a book of fairytales, with hair that shone like spun gold , glowing skin and a slim and willowy grace. She was sitting on the opposite side of the table to Lestrange, one seat away from the middle, next to a boy with black hair who had his back to me. They were talking quietly.

"Regan Trevelyan." Juliet spat out the name. It didn't take much to deduce that it was to Regan that Juliet was sending all her dirty looks.

"Aphrodite," Alphard sighed longingly, "thy name is _not_ Regan Trevelyan … Because she is a harpy."

"Hear, hear." Juliet raised her goblet and knocked it against Alphard's.

"Regan is Lestrange's better half," Alphard told me in a low voice. "He may be thicker than a concussed troll, but she certainly isn't. He does everything she tells him to." He lowered his voice even further. "She's Grindelwald's goddaughter."

I gasped. "No."

"Yes," Alphard said sagely. "A word of advice. Don't get on her bad side." He pulled me a little closer to him, whispering. "I'm not going to tell you anything, but Jules isn't sitting here because her parents have no gold."

"Good side," I repeated faintly. "Aye-aye, cap'n."

"That's right, blondie. That's right … Buuuut we all know that Trevelyan isn't at the tippy-tip-top of the pyramid," he added with a mischievous grin. "See that boy sitting next to her? The one with the dark hair? Sitting in the very middle on the good side of the table?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"That's Tom Riddle."

He just said the name, as if that was enough, as if it explained everything.

_That's Tom Riddle. _

I was surprisingly calm. I didn't faint or throw up or take cover under the table. Of this, I was quite proud. Here I was, sitting at the same table as Tom Riddle, the boy who would grow up to kill everyone I loved, and I was being _calm_.

Fred and George would have been so ashamed of me.

Juliet had decided to enter the conversation again. "I'm thinking of Tom Riddle and there's a word on the tip of my tongue," she sneered. "It begins in P and ends in T and it is–– "

" –Practically perfect in every way?" Alphard guessed. "Or just perfect, then?"

Juliet was not amused. "I was thinking more along the lines of prat," she said delicately. "Or prick."

"Juliet!" Alphard exclaimed. "Language in front of the First Years!"

"They're at the other end of the table."

Alphard shot a sideways glance at me. "In front of blondie, then," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"I'm not a First Year," I said indignantly.

"Of course you're not," Alphard pacified me, stroking my head. I ducked away, worried about the Glamour Charm on my hair. "And Riddle's not a prat."

"I agree," Juliet said unexpectedly. "He is not a prat. That's far too mild. He is the most insufferable, arrogant prat I have ever had the misfortune to meet. In fact, one might go so far as to call him an ..." she dropped her voice conspiratorially and Alphard leaned in close, the better to hear, "an arsehole!"

I grinned.

Alphard pursed his lips, deliberating. "Well …"

"Don't _well_ me, Alphard Black. You know full _well_ that Riddle thinks the world revolves around himself and his ego," Juliet snapped, a touch of verve sparking into life in her usually sour voice.

"All right," Alphard said heavily. "I concede he is a tad bit conceited. But he is not insufferable– " Juliet grumbled incoherently at this " –And as for the arsehole part, all I have to say on that particular matter is that he has a very nice arse."

I choked, hung suspended in nothingness for a moment and then dissolved into laughter with Alphard. The Fifth Years saw us and snorted with laughter. Even Juliet managed a smile, before hissing, "Alphard! You're making a scene!"

"Oh, come on, Jules!" he protested. "I already am an outcast. There's nothing more than they can do to me. I can hardly be an outcasted outcast now, can I?"

Juliet sniffed and thrust her nose up into the air. "You may been an outcast, Alphard," she dictated, her voice arctic. "But you are still a Slytherin. Behave like one."

Alphard shrugged and served himself a large slice of rhubarb crumble, which he proceeded to smother in cream. "If you say so, Juliet." From the sound of things, they had had this conversation many times before. "Dessert, blondie?" he inquired, gesturing at random dishes. "You need to eat, or I'll be carrying you around in my pocket. And with your complexion, porcelain might I say, you could do with some rouge in the those cheeks." He tilted his head to one side now, scrutinising me. "Your hair colour doesn't do you any favours, you know," he analysed me, his voice half-critical half-gentle. "It's too cold. It dulls your skin. You should go for a warmer shade – Or maybe brunette. Make that skin work for you, darling. Unleash your inner goddess."

Juliet frowned. I wasn't sure if it was directed to me or Alphard or us both. "He's right. You're very pale, MacKenna."

"Call me Ginny," I said quickly, dodging the question.

"Can I call you blondie?" Alphard asked, pouting. "It's more personal. It'll be my secret name for you. And you can give me one too and we can be secret name buddies. And it will be beautiful."

Juliet snorted derisively, but I ignored her, and I had a sinking feeling I would be doing so far too often for my liking. But, without doubt, Juliet's acidity was balanced out by Alphard's warmth and sparkle, and with him on my side, I dared to dream that life in Slytherin might just be bearable. Turning to my first new friend, probably my only new friend, I smiled and said, "Yes. I would love to be secret name buddies with you, Alphard Black ... On one condition."

"Name your price."

"I get to call you Alfonso."

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

By eleven o'clock, I realised that even if I had ten Alphards fighting in my corner, all of whom considered my eternal happiness their sole goal in life, Slytherin would always, always, _always_ be Hell on earth.

After lunch Alphard took me down to Professor Slughorn's dungeon office to meet my new Head of House and get a timetable. Old Sluggie hadn't changed much over the years and he presented me with my timetable without much ado; I guessed he was reserving judgment on me until he saw me in class. I scanned my timetable and, fortunately, all my Monday classes were the same as Alphard, though my luck ran out on Wednesday when our only common class was Transfiguration. The lessons themselves were hardly taxing, but the routine exhausted me. Just being back in the achingly familiar setting of Hogwarts assaulted me, and the memories of old friends coupled with sudden onslaught of people, and the constant threat of Riddle, whom I somehow managed to avoid completely, drained me physically and emotionally, and I almost fell asleep at dinner with Alphard and Juliet. As I picked wearily at my bread-and-butter pudding I tried to review my day in an optimistic light: at least no one had died. Yet.

When dinner was over, Juliet and Alphard shepherded my down into the Slytherin's dungeon common room. All I wanted to do was to find my bed and sleep, but Juliet had other ideas. Too tired to be polite, I demanded she leave me be, even if she didn't want to show me to our dormitory. "Can I get by please? I'm tired and I want to go to bed."

Juliet raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes as if I was a hopeless case. "I've told you. You can't. Not yet."

Underneath my robes, I fingered my wand.

"Why not?" I whined, directing my complaint at Alphard, who sat on my left.

"Because you have to be presented to the Hierarchy," he explained with a grimace. "It's traditional. All new Slytherin must present themselves to their superiors."

"Can't I just present myself to you?" I asked desperately.

Presenting myself to the Hierarchy meant presenting myself to him, something sure to gain me notice.

"Of course not," Juliet snapped. "Do we look like the Hierarchy?"

"But you're my superiors, aren't you?" I fought back. "You've been here longer than I have, at least."

"You can't leave," Alphard told me gently. I sighed, defeated. My distress must have shown in my face, because Alphard added, "But I could ask them to see you quickly. That way you would get to bed sooner. I still have store with a few of them. And you look like you could do a few extra hours under the duvet. A few extras days, even. There are more bags under your eyes than the whole of Diagon Alley!"

I cracked open an eye. "And I suppose you have a cream for that?"

Alphard smirked. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't … So, do you want to go now, or later?"

I took a breath. "Now. Might as well get it over with, right?"

"Right," Alphard agreed emphatically. "I'll just go tell them you're ready whenever they are." And he scurried off leaving me alone with Juliet. To avoid speaking to her I looked around the common room. It was only half-full. I couldn't see anyone older than Fourth Year. Where was everyone? My curiosity got the better of me and I turned to Juliet.

"Where is everyone?"

"Where they are supposed to be," Juliet replied coldly.

I glared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Juliet shot my one of her infamous 'you're-such-an-idiot-and-you-know-it-and-I-know-it-so-why-don't-you-get-down-on-your-knees-and-kiss-my-feet-you-worthless-piece-of-inferior-scum' look. I wondered if she practised it in the mirror in the morning. "It means that they are not where they ought not to be."

"Which is where …?"

"Associating with those of inferior rank."

I paused for a moment before going for the kill. "So is that why none of the Hierarchy are in the common room? They don't want to have to be in the same room as the likes of you? Of, you know, people of _inferior rank_?"

Juliet's eyes flashed dangerously. Her mouth opened for a retort that never came. And then she did something I would never have expected.

She began to cry.

* * *

Well, Chapter Three is up. It's kinda soon after Chapter Two but I wanted to post myself before I left, so here it is. Hope you enjoy. As always, reviews are cherished.

Cheers, Plonksie.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter, Pluto isn't a planet anymore & I can't find my favourite pair of Batman socks. Life sucks platypus eggs.

_REVIEWERS OF CHAPTER THREE  
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xoxo, you know I love you!

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_**Kitty Dazzleside**_

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Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Four

_  
Alone at six o'clock–  
You drop a cup–  
You see it smash–  
Inside you crack–  
You can't go on–  
But you sweep it up–  
Safe at last inside your private Hell  
Sanity at last inside you private Hell_  
'Private Hell' – The JAM

.

(_Ginny_)

The moment the first tear spilled down Juliet's cheek I regretted my harsh words. I fumbled, glancing from her shaking form and around the common room, unsure of what to do. My instincts told me to comfort her but I wasn't sure how my actions would be received. Perhaps accepting sympathy was frowned upon? Perhaps feeling sorry for people who are crying right in front of you was against the Slytherin creed? Perhaps crying, or feeling any emotion at all was outlawed.

I made my decision quickly. "Come on," I whispered to Juliet, taking her gently by the wrist. "Let's go to your dormitory. No one needs to see this."

I expected Juliet to swipe her hand away from mine, furiously wipe away her tears, deny that she was crying and stalk off with her cute button nose in the air. She did none of these things. Meek and mild, she allowed me to lead her across the common room and through the first door I came to. Thankfully it was the right one. I continued down the corridor until I reached a door mounted with a plaque reading _Sixth Years_. I knocked once on the door. No one answered and I pushed it open, guiding Juliet into the room. I kicked the door shut behind me and lit the old gas lamps with my wand. Juliet stood where I had left her like a lost sheep. Her hands were clasped by her breast and she kept twisting her fingers. Although she made no sound, tears streamed constantly down her face.

I fished out Alphard's handkerchief from my sleeve. "Here," I mumbled, handing it over.

Juliet stared me. But it wasn't a mean stare. She looked confused, shocked even, that I wanted to help her. That I felt sorry for her. That I cared about her being upset, cared enough to offer her a tissue. Her complete and utter surprise made me wonder just what kind of sadistic bunch occupied Slytherin. It was only a handkerchief.

"Here," I repeated, edging a little closer to her and reiterating my offer. "Take it." Juliet accepted it with a shaking hand. She dabbed daintily at her eyes and then folded up the crumpled hankie and held it out to me. I shook my head. "Keep it."

"Th–thank you." The words sounded rusty in her mouth.

I smiled. "Don't mention it."

"I think I shall sit down for a moment," Juliet informed the floor.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," I concurred. When Juliet didn't move I took her by the elbow and sat her down on the nearest bed, throwing a loose blanket around her shoulders. Her fingers curled around blanket's green velvet fringe and she started to cry again, this time more bitterly. Feeling a little awkward, I moved away from her towards the nearest piece of furniture in the dorm: an old-fashioned washstand complete with a heavy silver water jug. More for something to do than an actual desire for a drink, I poured myself a glass of water. I poured a second for Juliet and carried it back to where she was sitting. She took the water and gulped it down, spilling a good quantity down her chin in her haste. A small grin broke my lips at this little transgression. If only the Hierarchy could see her now.

"Can I ask you a question?" Juliet mumbled into the handkerchief, mopping off her face.

I sat down beside her on the bed. "Of course."

She raised her hand. The tears had softened her face and brought a warmth to her eyes. She looked like the baby angel I had thought of when I first met her. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

I blinked.

"Because you were crying."

"Yes, but why help me?" Juliet pressed impatiently. "Why?"

I felt a sudden urge to hug her, accompanied by an awful sinking feeling, like I was slowly wading into an icy lake of which there was no way out.

"Why not?" I said finally. "Why shouldn't I want to help you, be nice to you? Is there a problem with that?"

Juliet shook her head, obviously shocked. "No, but ..."

"Let me guess. It's not exactly common practise around here." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice.

"No. It's not."

"Shame," I said lightly.

Juliet gave the tiniest of nods, playing absently with the handkerchief. "You must think me so cold," she whispered.

"I don't know you," I replied inoffensively. "Not yet, at any rate."

Juliet acted like she hadn't heard me. "But I'm not all horrid, honest. If you had been through what I had these last years. So awful ... You would feel as I feel."

"I hope you don't feel like me," I murmured. "I feel so bad I wouldn't want even my worst enemy to feel this way."

Juliet's head snapped up. "That's the talk of weakness. If I were you, I should want my adversary to feel exactly what I was feeling. I should want him to feel my pain." The coldness and bitterness had crept back into Juliet's voice. She was frowning into space again. "If he could feel how I feel then I am sure he would not have acted so rashly. If he had felt how I felt …"

"Are you talking about Slevin Lestrange?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Like vomit they forced their way from me. The room around me froze solid and then thawed. Juliet was scrutinising me as if deciding whether to rage at me or to start a good old gossiping session. I sincerely hoped she veering towards the latter. "Forget I said that," I back-pedalled, my words garbled in my haste. "I didn't mean it. S'not any of my business. I shouldn't– "

"Yes," Juliet cut across me in a curt yet curious voice. "I was talking about Slevin Lestrange. Who told you of us?"

"No one," I lied. I didn't want to get Alphard in trouble.

Juliet raised her eyebrows. "Alphard did, didn't he?"

I said nothing.

"Don't worry. I'm not angry with you," Juliet assured me. "Or with him, for that matter. It's common knowledge." She said the words with obvious distaste. "You were bound to find out sooner or later. I can take solace in that knowledge that it came from a somewhat reliable source … Others have been known to twist a fact or two … Disgusting, really, to think that _I_, of all people …" she was talking to herself now, a constant streamed of fuming mutters.

"What happened?" I asked boldly. "Between you and Lestrange?"

"Regan Trevelyan," Juliet hissed. "She came here just after Christmas last year. Needless to say, the minute she laid eyes on Slevin she wanted him for her own. I suppose I could forgive her for that. He is so dashing, if I say so myself. Don't you think?"

I didn't dare to disagree. "Yes. Dashing. Very good-looking."

"Good-looking hardly covers it," Juliet sniffed smugly. "Needless to say, Slevin had no interest in that cow. We had been together since I was in Third Year. Our parents approved of our relationship, and, though he never mentioned it, I knew we were to get married once I finished my schooling."

"So why didn't you?"

At my question Juliet seemed to realise that she was awarding me, an as-of-yet unknown commodity, with valuable information. Even though she was no longer a part of the Hierarchy she still abided strictly by their rules. I wondered if this was because she hoped if she stuck to their stupid code they would allow her back into their midst, or if, after five years of following the rules she was so indoctrinated she couldn't help but to continue upholding them. Either way, I thought she was in a pretty sorry state. "Regan Trevelyan," she snapped through gritted teeth. Her eyes narrowed, her arms folded and her plump lips mashed together into a grim line, her stony mask now firmly back in place, all weakness packed back into its box. She smoothened out the handkerchief over her knee and handed it back to me, seeking, no doubt, to divest herself of all evidence of her human moment.

I pushed it back. "No, no. Keep it."

"No. I couldn't."

"Give it back to Alphard, then," I suggested. "It's his, after all. He gave it to me earlier."

Maybe it was the light, but at the sound of Alphard's name, I swore I saw Juliet's face twitch. "A–Alphard gave it to you?" she hiccupped, almost accusingly.

I nodded. "Yes. This morning. I was, uh, upset, and he ... he gave it me." I shrugged, feeling awkward.

She wrenched open the folding and examined it closely. Sure enough, Alphard's initials were embroidered at the hem in gold. Juliet twisted the handkerchief viciously. "That was nice of him."

"He's a nice person."

Juliet snorted.

I felt like ripping the handkerchief from her neatly manicured grasp, sick of her attitude, especially after the conversation we had just had, but was saved by the timely arrival of Alphard himself. He rapped smartly on the door, bowed low with a fancy hand flourish and waltzed into our dormitory. Odd, I thought, that Slytherin had no mechanism to keep the boys out of the girls' dorms. Odd.

Alphard bounced over to the bed looking very pleased with himself. "They said they'll see you first," he announced. He offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. "Jules," he called, taking a step back the better to look at me. "I need your help. Badly."

Juliet turned her back. "I'm sure you will do just fine on your own, Black."

Alphard's brow creased, his expression wounded. "Juliet?" He reached out for her but she slapped his hand away. Crestfallen, Alphard hovered, unsure whether to pursue Juliet and get to the bottom of her abrasiveness, or to attend to me. Eventually he settled on giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, and shot me a questioning glance. I shrugged, at a loss for answers. Alphard heaved a heavy sigh. "Come come come, blondie. Let's see what Alphard can do."

He led me over to the gilded mirror and increased the light with his wand. With another sigh, he inspected the shadows lurking under my eyes, product of a night fraught with dreams of him.

"Where do we start?" he lamented

"Where do you stop?" Juliet drawled from her lofty perch.

"We only have five minutes."

"Then don't bother. The difference it makes will be so small no one will notice."

"But first impressions are everything," Alphard insisted. Absently he tucked a lock of blonde hair behind my ear. I moved my head away from his touch. If he pulled on my hair and a strand came free of my head it would revert back to its natural red. I freed the lock from behind my hair and let it fall in front of my face again. Alphard sighed deeply but said nothing of it. "Come come come. Time's a-ticking and we don't want to be late."

As I left the dorm after Alphard, I saw Juliet slip the handkerchief back up her sleeve.

Instead of retracing our steps back out into the common room, Alphard continued down the passageway, deeper into the girls' dormitories. He seemed to know where he was going so I followed his lead without protest. We turned a corner and the corridor combined with a second one – the boys' dorm. In Slytherin the boys' and girls' dorms were connected.

"For ease of access," Alphard informed with a significant look, reading my confusion. "Supposedly it's different in other dorms, but I don't see why they would bother. Boys will always find their way to bed. Whether it's theirs or not hardly matters. This way," he gestured up a short flight of bare stone steps that ended in a dark wooden door with a silver snakehead for a handle. The emerald eyes flickered in the half-light. I shivered. It looked alive; dead, but alive.

"What are they going to do to me?" I asked in a tremulous whisper.

"I sincerely doubt they'll do anything too monstrous. They only want to scare you," Alphard assured me. "You'll pass. I have full faith in you, blondie."

"And what happens if I don't?"

"You're out," Alphard said grimly.

"Just like that?"

Alphard nodded. "Just like that."

I swallowed.

Alphard knocked on the door.

A Fifth Year opened the door a crack and peered out at our little group. "State your name and purpose," he said gruffly, trying to sound impressive and intimidating. A grin spread across Alphard's face. He stepped forward and laid his hand suggestively on the doorman's.

"Name: Alphard Black. Purpose: you."

The doorman actually screamed and leapt backwards, tripping over his own feet and crashing to the floor. Raucous laughter and cheering echoed around the room. Every inch a Black, Alphard strode past the floored doorman and into the room. Like a ringmaster introducing his grand finale, he offered up my name to the small group assembled in the room. "I present to you Miss Ginevra MacKenna, an Irish fox if 'ere there was one."

I couldn't move. Every fibre in my body was screaming at me to turn and run. I couldn't just walk into a nest of vipers.

"It seems as if your fox has … _out-foxed_ you, Black," sneered a drawling voice.

"No, Abraxas. The question is has she out-foxed _you_," Alphard improvised in a mysterious voice.

"I doubt it."

"Oh really. And what would you know of the behavioural patterns of foxes, hmmm?"

"Very little, thank Merlin. I don't make it my business to associate with dogs."

"And speaking of dogs," a second male voice took over from Abraxas Malfoy, this one deeper, more authoritative. "What are you doing here, Black? You are no longer welcome here. I thought we made that quite clear last year. Now bring in the girl and get out."

"Ginny!" Alphard stuck his head around the door. He jerked his head towards the room. "Come come come, my dear, your loyal subjects await."

I inhaled deeply and stepped forward– tripping over the lintel and stumbling through the door. Alphard caught me and stopped me pin-wheeling to the floor. Someone sniggered. Alphard steadied me and gave me a critical one-over out of the corner of his eye. I found myself withdrawing further into the protective casing of my baggy clothing, tilting my head a little so that my hair swung down and masked my face. Inconspicuousness was what I was aiming for. I needed to go before a group of people and present a face they would forget the moment I left. According to Alphard, they would let me in on a probationary period, perhaps for a month or so. That was fine by me. One month – thirty days – was all I needed. I would sit amongst them, unnoticed by all until it was too late.

"Ready?" Alphard breathed.

"No."

"Spiffing, darling. Shall we?" He offered me his arm. I clutched at his hand instead.

"When you're quite ready, Alphard," drawled Malfoy in a bored voice. I raised my head to glare at him – how dare he speak to Alphard like that – but that remembered I was supposed to be meek. I spied out through my hair. The room was built like the common room, long and rectangular with no windows. It was slightly smaller than the main common room but much more luxurious. There were numerous lamps situated around the room, but none were lit; the only source of light came from a spitting fire burning under the biggest fireplace I had ever seen. The Hierarchy were all grouped around the fire. Some were sitting bathed in firelight, other standing around in the half-light. I counted half a dozen; eight boys and four girls – much smaller than the group that he sat together at the Slytherin table. I looked closer and noticed none of the brawny Quidditch players or busty, brain-dead girls were part of this condensed group. But, as I looked closer still, I saw that _he _was not among the remaining party. Surely court could not proceed without the king?

I felt bolder, spurred on by his absence. Yet I felt strangely weakened too. Alphard walked me right down the room and deposited me in a hard-backed chair facing the fireplace. He made to leave but I held on tight to his hand.

"You may go." Abraxas Malfoy was on his feet. He dismissed Alphard with a lazy flick of his wrist.

"Am I really that repulsive to you, Brax?" Alphard smirked. "So much that you can hardly bear to look at me? Stand in my presence?"

"You repulse us all," Malfoy sneered. "Now leave us!"

"You do know it's my seat your sitting in," Alphard continued conversationally. "I hope you thought to clean it before you conquered it … You never know …" Malfoy went pale. Again, someone chuckled. Alphard blew him a kiss, eased his hand from mine and floated back down the room and out of sight. It took a minute for Malfoy to compose himself. When he was ready to proceed as my judge, jury and executioner, Orion Black joined him on the floor.

"You are Ginevra MacKenna," Malfoy accused me. "Correct?"

I nodded.

"Speak up, girl," ordered Orion Black. "Are you Ginevra MacKenna?"

"I am."

"Are you a Pureblood?"

"I am."

"How pure?"

"As pure as you," I answered without thinking. Malfoy's lip curled.

"I see. Well then why haven't I heard of your family? I know of no MacKennas."

I had suspecting a question like to come up ever since Dumbledore re-christened me and I had spent a good portion of Sunday morning concocting a convincing answer. "How many travellers do you know?" I retorted, keeping my voice soft.

"I thought I was the one asking the questions here?" Malfoy sneered.

"I only said it because if you didn't know any travellers, that would explain why you didn't know me, seeing as I am one," I replied quickly. I didn't like the way he was looking at me.

"I see … And what exactly is a traveller?"

"Someone who travels."

Malfoy's face flushed an ugly mottled pink, like a chicken that's just been plucked. "Travels where?" he demanded.

"Around Ireland."

"So you're Irish?"

I nodded. "I am."

"You don't sound Irish," pointed out a handsome girl, with short, dark hair – a daring feat of fashion for 1943, I thought – and slim, elfin features that made her oddly androgynous. It was Mercedes Zabini.

"I spent all summer in England." It wasn't exactly a lie, per say. "I lost my accent." That seemed to satisfy Mercedes. I prayed she wouldn't ask me to speak any Irish.

"I'll thank you to not interrupt me, Zabini," snapped Abraxas Malfoy.

"Don't talk to my sister in that tone of voice, Malfoy," cautioned a beautiful boy with long flowing hair and slanting eyes that gave his face a feminine grace. I guessed this was Mercedes' twin, Demetrius. Now that I saw both twins together I could see how people mistook them for each other, though the only feature they really had in common was eye colour, a fishy greyish-green. Cold and wet and slimy.

"Forgive me, Mercedes," Abraxas grovelled sycophantically. He, like all the Slytherins, knew their place, and its value. It was like one big game of chess. Though a knight could capture a bishop, he could not act like one.

Mercedes Zabini smiled coldly. "Of course, Abraxas. I should not have spoken out of turn." She sat down again and her brother joined her on the loveseat. They held hands.

The inquisition started up again. "What does your father do for a living?" Orion Black inquired snidely.

"He doesn't work," I said quietly.

Black smirked. "Why not?"

"Because he's dead."

No one really knew what to say to that. I just stood there, awkward, trying vainly to swallow the lump in my throat.

"Sorry," Black said, not sounding sorry at all. "What did he do prior to his death?"

"He was a – um ... He was a traveller."

"Ah. I see. Someone who travels?" he teased.

"Yes."

"That hardly seems to be a significant position in society," Black said facetiously.

"It depends on what you view as 'society'," I replied quietly.

More sniggering.

Black scowled. "I forgot. You are Irish. One cannot expect the Irish to adhere to the realms of respectability and Wizarding pride. It is of great wonder to me why the Weasleys don't crawl across the sea to squat amongst their fellow Dunglickers in the mud of Ireland."

"Careful, Orion," purred a girl with a slight Russian accent. Regan Trevelyan's voice was as beautiful as her face, rich and creamy, like hot caramel. "Don't overstep your mark."

Orion Black nodded stiffly. "Thank you for the warning. I shall heed it." I wanted to roll my eyes; this was more a power game than it was my inspection. I was getting bored. "What is the value of your family's estate?" He was interrogating me again, his voice harsher after his recent embarrassment. "Quick now."

"We're travellers," I said simply.

Black stared at me. "Yes, I know that. Please do not waste any more of my time and tell me the estimated value of your family's accumulated assets."

"We don't have an estate. I told you we're travellers."

"You mean you have no money?" squalled Walburga Black, Alphard's sister.

I nodded. "In some ways." The whole Hierarchy stared at me with open mouths, apart from Regan Trevelyan (who probably deemed staring below her), Mercedes Zabini (who looked as bored as I felt) and a red-haired boy who sat just to the left of the fireplace.

"What do you mean 'in some ways'?" she persisted. "What did your father do? Did he work in the Irish Ministry– "

" –if you could call it that," Orion smirked. Regan shot him a warning glance and he closed his mouth.

"He was a traveller," I reiterated, fighting hard to keep frustration from leaking into my voice. "He didn't work in the Ministry."

"What did he _do _then?" Walburga hung out of me like a spoilt child.

"He – um... " What _did_ travellers do? "He was a– a kind of Healer."

"Are you sure?" taunted Slevin Lestrange regally from the chair of honour right in front of the fire. I recognised his voice; he was the one who had told Alphard to leave.

I glared at him from behind the safety curtain of my hair. "I think I am. He was my father."

A few people sniggered. It looked like they knew just as well as Juliet and Alphard did that Slevin was not really in charge. "Don't you backchat me, girl," hissed Slevin, enraged.

"Don't make fun of me, then," I retorted.

"I'll do what I please with you," snarled Slevin, surging to his feet. He seized my wrist, pulling me to my feet and into his arms.

"Let me go!" I screamed, struggling usually against his vice-like grip. "Let me go, you monster!"

"Shhh, girl," Slevin murmured, his breath hot on my neck. I could feel his hands crawling all over me. "Shhhh... " Unable to reach my wand, I used to only weapon left to me. My teeth. I bit down hard on his hand. Slevin yelled in shock and pain, and released me. I staggered forward and fell to the floor. "You little bitch!" he roared, grabbing me and dragging me to my feet by the neck of my robes, his fist coming up. "You're going to regret that!"

I closed my eyes, waiting for the blow–

"Sit yerhself back down, Lestrange," said a new voice, one with a lilting Irish accent that reminded me of Seamus Finnegan. Slevin froze. "That's right, boy. Yeh heard me. Don't go doin' sumthin' stupid. Put the lassie down and, sure, we'll forget all about this, like. Sit yehrself down, now."

I glanced over at my defender. He sat right by the fire, as did all the most important people. His hair was a bird's nest of red; it looked as if someone had grated a carrot and stuck the pieces to his skull. He had the kind of milky skin that went a boiled pink in the sun and every inch of his face was covered in freckles. I looked at him and saw Ron. He looked at me and winked with a lopsided grin. His eyes were a murky green and one was fixed in a cross-eyed state. I knew why people gave him a wide berth, a blanket of respect. He looked completely insane.

But Slevin did not let me go. "Don't you tell me what to do, Fenian Casey," he snarled. "Back in your potato fields and mud hovels, you might have authority, but here I am the law, and you would do well to remember that. Bastard Irish mongrel." He spat at Fenian Casey's feet.

A normal person would have run for their life when spoken to in such a voice. Fenian Casey did not.

"I will, boy," he said calmly. "And sure I will again tomorra, so yeh can get yerhself down off yehr high hippogriff because this isn't yehr shop."

Slevin squared his shoulders, his jaw clenched. "Oh really. So who is in charge, if I am not?"

Casey smiled his lopsided smile. Several of his teeth were missing.

Then, out of the shadows, stepped a thirteenth person. He curled ten long, white fingers around the back of Slevin's abandoned chair and smiled at him. It was the smile of a shark the second before it eats you.

"I am," Tom Riddle said.

Our eyes met and everything went black.

**

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**Fenian, if you're wondering, is an Irish word for vigilante or rebel. Way back before the Irish war of independence (1918-1921) in the 1800's, the people in the illegal organisations that organised rebellions for Irish independence (kind of a precursor to the IRB {Irish Republican Brotherhood}, which was a precursor to the IRA) were called Fenians.

Hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter from Tom's POV, something to look forward to. Reviews, as always, are most welcome.

Cheers, Plonksie.


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: **nope, I don't own anything (except Alphard's necktie. That bitch is MINE, baby!)

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER FOUR _

_**the-quiet-girl**_ – yeah, I'm pretty finicky too. I hate it when the characters are OOC - or, at least, OOC in my head. The big thing for me is swearing. Tom Riddle doesn't _swear_. Not in this fic, at any rate. He does a bit in my other one, but that's perfectly justified. _Anyhoo_, thanks so much. I love being told I'm wonderful! (who doesn't? :P )

_**Kitty Dazzleside**_ – glad you did. I had a bit of fun writing it. :D

_**rosemary XD**_ – cheers! Hopefully this update is soon enough for you

_**kristinsk**_ – urgh! perceptive people like you make writing so much harder! Stop being so clever! Now I feel I've got to be more clever! URGH! But yeah, now my rants over, you_'_re completely right. In my mind Ginny is a strong character and grovelling is, like, so not her forte ... Or, well, maybe it depends on whom she's grovelling to … Thanks so much. I love it when people are honest. Although I like it people saying my story is great, I can_'_t really do that much with a review that just says 'this is great. more.', you know?

_**LittleNK**_ – don't you go underestimating travellers, mon ami. Have you not seen_ The Field_? Or the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_? This fic was parly inspired by that movie – or a song from that movie, more specifically. See if you can guess which one. Thanks for the review. It's great getting real feedback. Every review makes you want to write more and better (that's grammatically incorrect, isn't it? Oh well. DILLIGAFF)

_**kaarmae**_ – ooh. I'm all excited now. pps: I LOVE Alphard too. I can't seem to write a fic without an Alphard-esque character. There's Fiachra MacMurragh in my other Harry Potter one, and I've completely contorted Pietro Maximoff in my X-Men one … LOL :)

_**Dark Ketchum**_ – Pokémon! Gotta catch 'em all! (Am I right? Is it pokemen [Dark Ketchum – Ash Ketchum], or did I just have a big crash a burn moment?) Wow. Thanks. Best-written, huh? My ego is quite content now. If I was James Bond, I would have to take the lift by myself.

_**jp'slover4life**_ – yeah, I think everyone loves Alphard (he's based on one of my best friends) and I'm sooo glad you found the Hierarchy thing okay. I was nervous people would find it boring. Thank you for the prayers, but I'm doing great. Give them to Gaza instead ;) ... and who's JP?

_**livvie333**_ – thank God you found it interesting. Ditto what I said to jp'slover4life – I was scared people would find them really boring

_**Hurricane Rachel**_ – intense. Now there's a good word. Thanks

_**Kelly Cullen**_ – mwhahaha. I do love an evil cliffie every now and then. I'll pass the thanks onto Finn. Though, on second thoughts, maybe I won't. His head's big enough as it is!

_**Wallis K.**_ – thanks so much. It's own story? Awww. Thanks.

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Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Five

_  
She shines in a world full of ugliness  
She matters when everything is meaningless  
Fragile  
She doesn't see her beauty  
She tries to get away  
Sometimes  
It's just that nothing seems worth saving  
I can't watch her slip away  
_'The Fragile' – Nine Inch Nails

.

(_Tom_)

I wanted her from the moment I laid eyes on her. Don't ask me why; I couldn't say – not now, not ever. I didn't even know what I wanted her for – did I want to watch her, taste her, lock her up away from the world in a little box so that only I could see her, own her, possess her, hear her moan my name as I took her body, hear her scream my name as I took her mind, slit her throat and drink her blood, or kill her? All that mattered was she that was mine, and mine alone. Because in that moment she became as important to me as power, as immortality. She was power. She was immortality. And I wanted her.

The very thought of her burned in me like fire, searing and scorching, laying waste to my sensibilities and reducing my priorities to ash. There was a sudden dryness in my mouth that no liquid would placate, an aching thirst that no drink would quench, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. I had never felt this way before. I wondered vaguely what it was, the feeling. Desire, maybe? But I had desired. I do desire. It wasn't desire, of that I was sure.

But if not desire, what was it that consumed me?

Obsession?

Infatuation?

Terrorisation?

Or love?

Love. I laughed at the very thought

But whatever it was, she had me. Hook, line and sinker, she had me. I did not understand how. Like moth to a flame, I was drawn to her and I knew I had only two choices: kill her – or _have_ her. Killing, I knew, would be the easier option. But there was something inside that warned me against this course, a little voice in the back of my whispering to me that if I killed her, the burning would not cease, but increase. Killing her was not a viable solution. Which left only one option. I had to have her. But why? Why did I want her so?

With the clinical precision of an expert, I examined her, soaking in every tiny detail. _Scito vester inimicus_, as they say: _know thine enemy._

On the outside she registered a mere acceptable, her face ducked, hiding inside her clothing. The jumper sagged and hung low, camouflaging all. She looked so fragile, as though a single gust of wind would blow her off her feet and cause her to smash into a billion tiny pieces. Some tiny china doll. I could break her with my eyes closed. My fingers itched.

Fingertips peeped out from her jumper's cuffs, wasted and white. Two of her fingernails were missing. Interesting, very interesting. I stared harder, unable to understand. Her face was pale and thin, her eyes dull and shadowed with exhaustion. Her hair was an ashy blonde and hung like a faded lace curtain in front of her face; lank, limp and long, she hid behind it like a scared child. And she was scared. From where I stood in the shadows of the fireplace I could smell her fear. It radiated off her in waves. But what was she scared of? Or who?

Questions, questions.

Shaking like leaf, she clutched at Alphard Black's hand like a drowning man clings to a piece of buoyant wood. Her voice was soft and hoarse, a whisper, a whisper of a whisper. Her eyes were so much older than her smooth skin, and hollow. She was spent.

Her name was Ginevra. Pretty, I thought, but not memorable. It suited her. MacKenna, on the other hand – she was no more Irish than I was. Intrigued, I remained the shadows, listening intently to her stuttering conversation with the despicable Abraxas Malfoy. True, Malfoy had his uses and for them I kept him on my side, but I doubted there was a person alive who could truly stomach him. Even his own mother's skin must crawl at the sight of his greasy hair.

"Are you a Pureblood?" Malfoy demanded rudely.

"I am," she answered, quick and quiet. People who spoke quick and quite desired to be forgotten. But why? This girl was a veritable enigma. But I would crack her. The means by which would depend on her level of cooperation. I doubted she would resist much. She was a girl; they never did.

"How pure?" persisted Malfoy.

"As pure as you."

A smirk curled my lips. She was bold, this girl. Boldness was an admirable trait in a girl. They were usually so conquerable it was hardly worth the while. Yet, this sudden outburst of daring ran contrary to the image she projected. Was she really a dispirited wraith, or was she something more?

"I see. Well then why haven't I heard of you? I know of no MacKennas." Malfoy was eying her now, drinking her up. Later he would pay. The girl averted his gaze too and a shiver ran through me as disgust flickered across her face.

"How many travellers do you know?" she retorted, her voice soft but sharp. A traveller? Curiosity exploded inside me like a personal supernova. A traveller … Did she mean she came from a meandering band of landless crooks, those whose ancestors were evicted from their hovels during the Great Famine and decided against resettling, choosing instead to roam the country, masquerading to the Muggles as peddlers of mystic and folklore. But this revelation held yet another paradox. How could someone so delicate, so frail, so pure be born of the vulgar, squalid stock that is itinerancy? She was a traveller. A gypsy.

"I see … And what exactly is a traveller?"

"Someone who travels."

Watching Malfoy bluster about the interrogation was like watching someone try to dissect a butterfly's wing using a sledgehammer. He was so heavy-handed and dulled; he had no class. The problem was he was convinced he did and the more he tried to show it the further he fell short. It was really quite amusing. Regan tilted her head back, her hand snaking behind her to brush against my leg. The firelight played across her throat and chest and caught her necklace. Tiny diamonds of light cut up her throat. She smirked at me, rolling her eyes. I smirked back. Regan, like Malfoy, had her uses. And, likewise, her problems. She had too much beauty and too much brains, and that she tried to use them equally. Why risk a queen when a simple pawn will suffice?

"Later," she mouthed.

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. It was she who came to me. She always came to me.

Regan's red lips curled up into a pout. She slid forward again and began admiring her nails. I could not reprove her for being vain, however. I may be a lot of things, but certainly I shall never stoop so long as to be branded a hypocrite. And why shouldn't I be vain? There was nothing wrong with a little justified vanity. Arrogance is a science, an art. The trick to arrogance is how you play it. Never make those far below you feel inadequate and turn against you; never make a fool of yourself by shouting yourself above your superiors; but always let everyone else know you are better than they are and that there is nothing they can do about it.

"You don't sound Irish," observed Mercedes Zabini. Haughty and aloof, no one ever truly credited Mercedes with her full potential. She was a sharp a blade, twice as quick and three times as painful if you crossed her. I can't say I liked her, yet I respected her, as did she I in return. The Zabinis had a unique position in our little circle. They neither took part nor sat out and hence were not ranked, though little Mercedes' voice carried more weight than two Blacks and a Malfoy combined.

I watched as Malfoy floundered against the slippery fish that was Demetrius Zabini.

"Don't talk to my sister in that tone of voice, Malfoy."

"Forgive me, Mercedes."

Mercedes forgave him and returned to her seat beside her brother on the loveseat. They held hands, and that was not all they did.

In the face of Malfoy's culling, Orion Black took over as Inquisitor-in-Chief. Just listening to him speak made me wonder why on earth had Alphard Black sought to leave our circle when the Montague girl was expelled. Alphard had twice the brains of his cousin and a great deal more gravitas, yet he chose to throw them to the wayside. I confess myself surprised at how the plan worked. Surely anyone possessive of a jot of common sense would have seen through his thin farce?

I am surrounded by idiots.

"What does your father do for a living?" Black asked, waiting to trump her reply with whatever position his father had bought over the summer. Corruption, they say, is the worst of the best, though when Arcturus Black is the best we shall all be in serious trouble.

"He's dead."

Her father was dead. My father was dead.

I fingered Gaunt's old ring. The stone was flawed and cracked and the gold mouldy, yet I did not clean it. I touched it as little possible; there was something about it that I disliked, something about the stone. Sometimes I thought it whispered in the dark, muffled voices comes from beyond a veil. But that was nonsense; stones don't whisper, not even in the Wizarding world.

Orion was talking again. He used long words in a futile attempt to endorse himself, yet the effect was spoiled by his obvious lack of brainpower. "That hardly seems to be a significant position in society."

"It depends on what you view as 'society'," Gypsy answered definitely. Defiance, another quality for the list. I valued defiance but not amongst my own. Perhaps it would be best labelled as quick-wittedness. I could deal with quick-wittedness.

Orion scowled petulantly. "I forgot. You are Irish. One cannot expect the Irish to adhere to the realms of respectability and Wizarding pride. It is of great wonder to me why the Weasleys don't crawl across the sea to squat amongst their fellow Dunglickers in the mud of Ireland."

Infinite is the number of fools, and trust Orion Black, the Champion of Cretins, to insult the most dangerous of us, discounting myself. Fenian Casey was riotously volatile and fiercely proud, a precarious combination liable to explode at any moment. On the other hand, once you had him on your side he was yours to the death, and he possessed the most anarchic sense of humour I had ever come across. Fenian would not follow me, on that he was clear – he already had a mission in life, and following was not one of his defining attributes – but he was my ally and of that I was glad. He chose his friends and enemies the moment they walked into his life and never went back on his decision. I could have abused and exploited his friendship, but I saw no need to. He was no threat, not to me.

Regan cautioned the male Black only for the female to disgrace the family further. The pitiful naivety of the Blacks was exposed once again as Walburga failed to grasp the fact that having no material wealth can work to one's advantage when they had a certain amount of brains, beauty and charm. Though such a thought was completely hypothetical as Walbugra had neither brains, nor beauty nor charm. "You mean you have no money?" she squawked.

Gypsy nodded. She was calm, composed. She did not let Black's crudeness ruffle her. "In some ways."

I watched as she deflected off Black's bluntness and made a mockery of Lestrange.

"Don't you backchat me, girl," seethed Slevin, his voice rising as his anger swelled.

"Don't make fun of me, then," Gypsy returned brazenly, subconsciously sticking out her chin.

"I'll do what I please with you," snarled Slevin. He leapt forward and snatched her. I froze. She was _mine_. What did he think he was doing? Instinctively I raised my hand – I did not need a wand – and––

"Sit yerhself back down, Lestrange," said Fenian without even looking at me. Did he know? Did he suspect me? How could he? I had done nothing to betray my interest. Perhaps he was just seeking to prevent things getting ugly. That was one of his little oddities; he hated violence unless he was the perpetrator. It had to be that. "That's right, boy. Yeh heard me. Don't go doin' sumthin' stupid."

I scowled. I would have preferred to incapacitate Lestrange in some way. His delusion of power might have been comical if he was not such a vexing individual. He stood tall under Fenian's gaze, gripping my Gypsy close.

"Don't you tell me what to do, Fenian Casey," he snarled.

A pathetic attempt at intimidation. How do you intimidate someone who thinks you no more than mediocre amusement? Lestrange, of course, full of an unsubstantiated sense of self-importance, noticed none of this.

"I will, boy," Fenian continued, unaffected by Lestrange's growls. "And sure I will again tomorra, so yeh can get yerhself down off yehr high hippogriff because this isn't yehr shop."

Lestrange's face contorted into an ugly grimace. "Oh really. So who is in charge, if I am not?"

The moment was so perfect one might have thought it scripted. I shrugged off my cloak of shadows and threw Lestrange a spare smile.

"I am."

Lestrange went pale and opened his mouth to apologise. I deflected him with a split glance and gazed at Gypsy. My eyes sought her and for one eternal moment I had her. In her eyes I saw such a burning emotion I thought I might burst into flames if I held her gaze. In that one moment I knew it was I she feared. No, hated. No, _raged_. She was raging like a great storm-tossed sea, like old King Lear,

_Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!  
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout  
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!_

Learned years ago in a dreary London schoolroom, the words came to me now. I thought I would never need them, but looking at the Gypsy I knew nothing else would suffice in encapsulating her fury. Making no sound, the words muttered and fluttered across my mind.

_You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,  
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,  
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,  
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!  
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once  
That make ingrateful man!_

Her tiny body was corrupted with this rage. Who knew something so small could wreak such havoc. She was full of rage, yet I did not fear her. Rage was a powerful emotion, but an expensive one. Rage, born of loss, made you reckless. Irrational. Liable to sudden manifestations of spontaneity. Rage made you weak. Just like love. Many people confuse rage with hate. Hate is different, hate is born of hate. Rage is born of love. And, oh God, how she raged at me. And I wanted her even more.

And then she was gone. Just gone. Like a lonely feather she fell. I waited for the singing of broken china but all the came was a soft thump.

"Well, I say," Walburga exclaimed. "What kind of manners are they? Mother would be most displeased should I fall asleep among company. How perfectly ghastly."

"Don't be stupid," retorted Avery. "She's dead."

"She'll make a nice rug," snickered Travers.

The pitiful thing about Travers is that he probably toiled all night thinking of something fearsome and impressive to say should someone just so happen to drop dead before him.

"Must you be so vulgar, Travers?" sighed Regan. I could feel her eyes on me. Hers and Fenian's. Saying nothing, I strode past them and knelt by Gypsy's side. My hand shook as I reached for her throat. Her skin was so soft, so warm. As the seconds crawled by I felt my skin leech the warmth from hers, first a sharp tingling in my fingertips and a fuzzy feeling pulsing up through veins. My fingers traced her skin, foraging for a pulse. I found the vein quickly. Despite her frailty, the blood pounded through the spiderweb of blue veins in a dogged, determined rhythm. She was so full of life. My fingers pressed against her throat. If I applied the correct amount of pressure in the correct place for the correct length of time I could kill her. Kill her and solve my problem before it could eat away at me any longer. Of their own accord my fingers strayed towards her face, skimming up her throat, along her jawbone. Beneath them I felt ridges, breaks in the smooth silk of her skin. Scars concealed by a Glamour Charm.

Who dared to mark my Gypsy?

Discreetly, I shifted my position so that my actions would be undetectable to those behind me, and raised her hand to my face. Her skin smelt faintly of cherry blossom soap. There was nothing false about it, no intruding perfumes that assaulted the sense. She was real. I lowered her hand and inhaled deeply. And I froze. She reeked of magic. Everything from her mal-fitting clothes to her lank hair stank of it. A Glamour charm, I recognised it instantly for I used one myself. Her hair was the worst. I was sure it had been altered in someway. But why would she use a Glamour charm on her hair and not on her missing fingernails?

"Riddle?"

Slowly, delaying the moment of parting for as long as possible, I laid her hand down on her chest and stood up. My fingers were still warm. "She's alive."

"Er … What do we do now?" Malfoy said.

"The hospital wing," Regan ordered imperiously. "Rookwood, Dolohov. Take her."

Rookwood struggled to his feet and drew his wand, pointing it at her. I did not trust the incompetent Rookwood with my Ginny, my Gypsy. I flicked my hand, saying the incantation in my head, and she levitated. Rookwood scowled a little and I raised my eyebrows. He looked away, an aptly rosy blush creeping up his paunchy cheeks, and scurried from the room with Dolohov at his heels. I watched them go with narrowed eyes. Dolohov had twisted a strand of her hair around his finger.

He too, would suffer the consequences of playing with another's favourite toy.

I returned to the diminished group. Lestrange had taken up residence in Dolohov's abandoned chair as he could no longer sit in mine. As I drew level with him his eyes flickered to the seat. "Just dealing with the commoners," he excused himself hurriedly. I merely nodded. I didn't sit down. I never did. I stood by the fire, soaking up the heat while I could.

Regan cleared her throat. "So," she drawled her in Russian lilt, "vhat are ve thinking of our latest acquisition?"

I glowered into the flames. Ginevra was not _our_ acquisition. She was _mine_.

"She's too clean," Mercedes complained. In other words, she feared for her position. "I would be willing to wager she's still untainted."

"That can be easily remedied," chuckled Demetrius. My fingers itched, magic tingling at their tips like pins and needles. It would be quick – it might even be painless. "I rather liked her. There was something about her. An edge. Finally, a girl worthy of taking."

"Yeh'll do nuthin' of the sort, Zabini," growled Fenian. "Sure this is no ha'penny whore we're talkin' about. This is a _cailín _of Ireland. Have yehrself some respect, boy. I think she's after deservin' a chance with us. Showed up Black and Malfoy right good," he finished with a deep-throated chortle.

"I agree," concurred Raphael Nott. Even after five years of living in the same dorm as Nott I wasn't satisfactorily certain of his agenda. He did as he pleased (as did I) and people allowed him a certain leeway because of his formidable skills as a duellist; in our Fourth Year he had demolished Lestrange, a Fifth Year, with both hands tied behind his back. He was small and because of that most people made the costly mistake of underestimating him, though Nott had never made the mistake of underestimating me. We regarded each other with frosty courtesy. "I think we ought to include her on a probationary basis."

"Well _I_ disagree," Walburga Black sniffed. Instantly Orion followed suit, as did Malfoy. Once Malfoy was in for something it was safe to assume that Rosier and Avery would side with him; they were too dim to be of any use to us of the higher rank so they threw their weight where it was appreciated. Though it wouldn't really matter if it was eleven-to-one, once I wanted her in. However, if it were only I backing her I would have to give a reason for it, and I did not want to do that.

"I still think she'd make a nice rug," cackled Travers.

Regan thought for a while before speaking. She had two votes; Slevin always agreed with her. "Although I am not sure of her background," she began in a slow voice, choosing her words carefully, "I think ve ought to observe how she flirts vith power before deeming her eligible or not." A sly smile on her face, she turned to me. Her fingers intertwined with mine. Her hands bore the moist caress of handcream and carried an excess of scents. I couldn't pick on a single one from a mass, nothing which separated her from all the other girls. Not like my Gypsy. "Vhat do you think, Tom?"

Only Regan called me Tom.

I watched for her reaction out of the corner of my eye and saw she already knew my answer. Or, at least, she thought she did.

"It stands at six-five against her," she prompted me shrewdly.

"Five-six," Abraxas said suddenly. "I vote for giving here a chance." A scowl flickered across my face. I caught it quickly, but Regan caught it too. She trailed her fingers up my arm.

"Come, Tom," she purred. "You cannot keep us all vaiting like this. It's not fair."

"Six-six," I said shortly. She was mine. I was not about to share her with the likes of the preying Demetrius Zabini and the lecherous Abraxas Malfoy. I would not let her sit in my presence and have them sully her virtue with their rapacious thoughts. If I could not have her, no one could.

Regan hid her surprise well. "Very vell. But let me add that if ve feel she has proved herself vorthy of another trial ve let her stand? Perhaps at Halloween?"

Regan was a slippery little eel, I would give her that. "I hardly think it necessary, but if you wish," I agreed indifferently. By the time Ginevra earned herself a second hearing she would be mine. I was sure of it.

**.**

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

**.  
**

Later, as I was putting back on my shirt, Regan called to me from the bed. "Tom?"

"Mmm," I answered vaguely, buttoning my cuffs.

"The new girl. Ginevra. Vhat do you really think of her?" There was something in her voice that I did not recognise as she asked the question; her tone was elegantly casual – a tone I used often – but a river ran through it, deeper and darker. I couldn't read her emotions from her voice so I turned to her, the better to see her face. She was sprawled on her back, the sheets twisted around her waist. Like glowing spiders, her fingers dusted back and forth across her bare stomach. She felt my gaze and tilted her head back so that her eyes met mine.

Regan's least attractive feature was her eyes. They were an odd shade of maroon. I suppose on paper they might sound exotic, but in reality they resembled two flat spheres of sour wine, the kind that not even a man dying of thirst in a desert would consider drinking. I would never tell her this, though, for the Montague girl, with her uncanny knack for worming out people's weaknesses, had already done so. That was why I allowed her to be expelled from the Hierarchy, despite her being just as Pure as all of us. That, and the fact that I preferred Regan to be the one who owed me, and not vice versa. When she arrived Regan sought my affections for a single day before abandoning the fruitless pursuit and henceforth aimed at acquiring my allegiance instead, which I was only too happy to grace her with. She had brains enough to know that together we could be so much more powerful than we were apart. She also knew she would never be able to manipulate me as she could Slevin, and she had the sense to never try. I can't say as I was as courteous. The thing that surprised me was that she almost always went along with my little games. At first I was wary about it, I considered the possibility that it might be she playing me, but as time wore on I detected nothing to suggest it was so, which left only two potential causes: either she was unaware of what I was doing … or that she wanted to be manipulated.

"Vell …?"

I smirked. "Why do you want to know?"

"Vhy don't you vant to tell me?" she pouted.

I folded my arms across my chest. "On the contrary, I believe I made my opinion quite clear at our little inauguration ceremony."

Regan heaved a great sigh and flung her arm back over her head, beckoning to me with her moist fingers. I approached her, stooping to bring my lips to hers. When I kissed her I could taste the oil of her lipstick. She slicked her hands through my hair down to the back of my neck and pulled me closer to her. I shimmied sideways onto the bed as she slid her hands down my back, fumbling with the hem of my shirt. She groped with the buttons as I maraudered my way from her lips, down past her jawbone and to her jugular. Her pulse proved elusive however, just like mine, and I paused.

"Tell me vhat you're thinking?" Regan breathed into my shoulder. She wasn't demanding, she was asking. A strange new development.

"I am thinking that you ought to stop talking," I murmured between breaths.

Regan gave a little laugh and complied.

As I buttoned my shirt for the second time that night she joined me on the floor, slipping her nightgown back on. She stood behind me, watching our reflection in her mirror. Subconsciously she twisted a strand of blonde hair around a finger – a sign of inner turmoil.

"Do you think she's pretty?" she asked haughtily, daring me to agree.

"Do I think who is pretty?" I toyed with her.

She scowled at the mirror. "The new girl. Ginevra." I wondered if she knew she was scowling.

Slowly, I looked over my shoulder at her, my eyebrows raised. Her questions were perplexing me. Why should she care what I thought of our frail new friend? And what made her think that I was going to confide my innermost thoughts to her? "Regan, Regan, Regan." I sighed patronisingly. "If you want to ask a question, then just ask it."

"I did," she retorted sullenly.

"Oh yes. But what you meant to say was whether I thought she was prettier than you, didn't you?"

Her eyes flashed. I smiled. I had hit a nerve. I did not need Juliet Montague to know that Regan's weakest point was her self-esteem, or lack of it. It was a luscious irony that one of the school's beauties was as self-conscious as a budding adolescent.

"Either answer the question or leave," she ordered.

"Let's make a deal, shall we? You answer my question first, and then I'll answer yours," I said diplomatically.

She considered for a moment and then agreed.

I turned back to face the mirror. Regan was an attractive girl, of that there could be no dispute, but she awoke no fire inside me. She was not Gypsy.

I wrapped my arms around Regan from behind, pulling her in close, my breath condensing on her warm throat. A single droplet snaked down her clavicle. I followed it with my tongue, sucking and biting, marking her as used for when Slevin returned. Regan's breath caught in her throat and her head collapsed backwards. Her veins stood out on her neck. I lowered my lips once more.

"If I said she was prettier than you, what would you do?"

"You know exactly vhat I vould do."

I chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I do. But why would you do that? What does she have that you don't?"

Regan's head snapped forward, her eyes dark. "Nothing. She has nothing."

"Don't lie to Lord Voldemort, Regan," I purred silkily, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Her arms were folded and her eyebrows raised.

"I'm not lying."

Everyone else would have believed her. I didn't. "Oh, but you are." I waggled a disapprovingly finger at her, delighting in her discomfort.

Discomfort that rapidly changed to roguish glee. Her hands cupped my face.

"And vot if I am lying? Tom? Vot vould _you _do?"

She bent to kiss me and I grabbed her chin, forcing her head around, holding her with iron fingers. "If you were lying to me, Regan," I breathed, a lover, in her ear, "I would cut out your lying tongue and feed it to you."

I passed Slevin in the corridor on my way back to the Hierarchy's common room. His jaw clenched but he knew better than to challenge me. He dropped his head and stood back to allow me by down the narrow passageway.

"My Lord," he murmured.

The curious thing is that Lestrange's address excited me so much more than all of Regan's caresses.

I took the secret passage from the common room and came out in the Forbidden Forest, one hundred metres or so from the front gate. Dippet's feeble enchantments were no match for me and once I was past the gates I Apparated to His side. When I got there, the mark branded at the base of my wrist stopped burning, but inside me a fire raged, raged for Ginevra.

* * *

Well? What do you think? Is it okay? I'm going for a broody Riddle, you know. Did it work? 

_Cailín _is Irish for girl. And if the accents are too much, just tell me. I rather liked them – I think they give a story depth – but if they're disconcerting I'll see if I can tone them down a bit. Oh, and I stole the term _Dunglickers_ from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ (I got it for Christmas! Dude, it's epic)

And thanks to everyone who put this story on their Story Alerts or Favourite Story - or me (can you believe it?) on their Favourite Author - lists. Thanks.

Cheers, Plonksie.


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N: **Fear not my children. Plonksie is back. Can I get a w00t-w00t?!

REVIEW REPLIES – love you all with Irish love! 

_**mistpool32132, Hach, Minako, confused-Luna, the-quiet-girl, mistakenidentity02, vlucia, Lummylicious, I'm-Reading, Hurricane Rachel, LittleNK, Wallis K., indigo8795, grumpish-pko**_

_**Cadaverous Apples **_– wow! That was some review. My head's spinning – how do I answer all your questions? I'll just say this: most of them get covered throughout the story. As for the Russian; wow, that'd be great. I'd love some real Russian, just to give things depth. I'll PM you when the time is right, hmmm 'kay? … Loving the name, btw

_**Team Guy of Gisbourne **_– is it just me or have I chanced up another BBC Robin Hood fan? If so, you so totally rock dude! Yeah, I was thinking about doing a chappie from Alphard's PoV and although I'm sure it would be great fun I'm not certain if I will. I kidna have a plan, y'see … Bummer, I know

_**ExSquared**_ – thanks. I was a disappointed with Ginny in DH – she did nothing! Absolute diddily squat! – so I really wanted to write a fic where she's a good, strong character. Glad you thought Riddle okay, I was a little nervous as to how people would receive him. Regan's name; it's from King Lear, you know, the evil sister.

_**Anonymous friend**_ – greetings, my friend who is anonymous. I can't actually say if you remind me of any of my friends, seeing as you are anonymous and all that, but thanks! You must have some psycho friends! LOL

_**Sophia Supernova**_ – thanks sooo much! I'm so happy he worked out! He's such a hard character to get right. Ditto happiness on your liking the Hierarchy system. I was scared people would find it boring. My bad on the Ginevra thing – I went back and corrected them all! Thanks for pointing it out

_**jp'slover4life**_ – amen, my hard maraudering amigo! (is maraudering a word?)

_**Lacarnum Inflamarae**_ – your guesses are most accurate, my friend. Damn them to Hell. You're spoiling all the surprises. Much dark and spooky love to you too

_**kristinsk**_ – Goddammit! I hate perceptive people like you! And, no, Tom doesn't feel a need to kowtow to Regan, the reason for which you will find out at a later date

_**DarkKetchum**_ – Fenian, bro, is a dude. And dudes are cool with damsels in distress bumming off their nationality. Except if they're American. And half the fecking world claims to be Irish so I think that allows Ginny to do so too. I, however, AM Irish, so hit that bitches! Yeah. I hadn't actually thought of that so this whole response is a pathetic attempt at a cover-up … Gotta Catch 'Em All!

Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Six

_Strumming my pain with his fingers  
Singing my life with his words  
Killing me softly with his song  
Telling my whole life with his words  
Killing me softly  
_'Killing Me softly' – Aretha Franklin

.

(Ginny)

"Is she awake?"

"I would hazard a guess at the negative."

I was faintly aware of two people talking, their words buzzing around my head like flies, flies which I was too tired and comfortable to swot.

"How do you know?"

"She's snoring. Generally, when people do that, its means they're asleep."

"Poke her, then."

"What? Poke her? Why in the name of Merlin's silky suspenders would I want to poke her?"

"Because she's asleep. Honestly, Alphard."

"I know she's asleep, Jules. Poking her would only wake her up."

"That's the whole idea."

"But what if she doesn't want to wake up? What about her beauty sleep, Jules? What about it? How could you possibly live with yourself knowing you've sabotaged, nay _desecrated _I say, a thing as time-honoured and sacred as a blonde's beauty sleep? Hair like that doesn't stay blonde with spit and prayers, you know."

"I'll survive. Now poke her."

For a moment I wondered if they were actually talking about me. I didn't have blonde hair, after all. Then I remembered. Then I remembered everything. The forest, Harry, Malfoy, the Time-Turner, Alphard, Juliet, the Slytherins … and him.

His face was burned into my retinas. Even with my eyes closed, I could not escape him. I wanted to scream out, to curl up and cry, to run away. Just one look – and see what he had reduced me to? I was eleven years old again, a scared naïve little girl writing steadfastly in her diary. A diary who wrote back, seducing her with sympathy, killing her softly with kindness, poisoning her slowly with sugared promises that rotted out her soul. A diary that housed the most beautiful, the most evil boy the world has ever seen. Even after so long, so much pain and heartache and destruction, a part of me, however small, still missed him.

But I was not going to cry this time. I vowed silently to shed not one more tear over Tom Riddle, not until I saw his lifeless body. For Harry, I would not cry. For Harry and Draco and Hermione, Luna and Neville, and my parents and brothers, for Moody, Tonks and Lupin, I would see it done.

"No. You poke her."

"Just poke her, Alphard."

"No. Poking's a boy's sport. Too much stabbing. I might break a nail."

"Alphard."

"What?"

"Just do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"I refuse."

"Not even for me?"

I felt a very gentle prod.

"Again," commanded a female voice. "Harder."

"Why?" whined her male companion. "Why can't we just let her sleep? We can always come back at dinner, you know. It's not like she's going anywhere."

"She has to know."

"It can wait until after dinner, Jules. It's not exactly urgent."

"Not exactly urgent! Alphard! Have you lost your mind entirely? Of course it's urgent! What could possibly be more urgent?"

Alphard's stomach gave a loud grumble. "My lunch, that's what's urgent."

"Well then wake her up. The sooner we tell her, the sooner you can gorge yourself stupid."

I thought of Ron and a stab of pain clawed at my heart.

"Tell me what?" I asked groggily, massaging sleep out of my eyes. I propped myself up on my elbows, unable to feint sleep any longer.

Alphard and Juliet froze mid-action.

"You're awake!" they exclaimed simultaneously. Alphard sounded overjoyed. Juliet, less so.

I nodded. "So it would appear. Tell me what?" I repeated, anxious to hear the news. If it involved a teenage boy skipping lunch, I knew it must be serious.

Juliet bit her lip. Judging by her pained expression, someone had died. Maybe her sister. Of, perhaps, she had simply overdosed on U-No-Poo. I'm sure the effect would have been similar. "Ginerva. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I have some awful news." She looked positively delighted. "You must promise me that my telling you this shan't affect our friendship in any way. I've only just met you, but I know we are to become such good friends." Slowly, she reached out and tapped my arm in what she thought to be a consoling manner.

"If you say so," I said, a little uncertain.

"Blondie." Alphard clapped his hands together with the air of a seasoned Healer about to deliver an inauspicious prognosis. "Ginerva–– "

"Ginny," I corrected.

He smiled. "Ginny. Well, I don't see any point in beating about the bush. I, for one, don't particularly care for bushes that much anyways, so I tend to steer clear of beating about them when the chance arises. Sometimes, regrettably, it's unavoidable, though last time I slogged it out with a bush my hair didn't speak to me for a week. I hardly need to tell you how distressing that was. A man's best friend, his hair is … What was I saying?"

I grinned. "Something about spilling the beans."

"Oh, one should always circumvent any spilling of beans," Alphard said. "Bean sauce is murder to get out of clothes. They are tasty, though."

"Alphard," Juliet warned.

Alphard grinned bracingly. "All right. There's good news and then there's bad news."

Juliet frowned. "No, Alphard. There's just bad news. Extremely bad news."

Alphard nodded consolingly to Juliet but said nothing. "The good news is the Hierarchy decided you, eh, do not fulfil their requirements. The bad news is they are willingly to review your case at a later date." He paused to think, scratching his chin. "Or did I say that the wrong way around? Ah, yes. The _bad _news is the Hierarchy think you're not fit to be fed to plague-infested rats. The good news is you get to slum it with us, your fellow outcastly chums."

"Alphard!" Juliet hissed, scandalised. "This is hardly a joking matter."

I looked from Alphard, who dropped me a wink, to Juliet, who was trying to rearrange her look of vindictive glee into one of sincerest commiserations. And I began to laugh. So what if I was not in the Hierarchy? So what if I did not fulfil their requirements? I didn't need them. And I most definitely didn't want them. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made that I was not a member of the Slytherin elite. Riddle would much less expect an assassination attempt from a lowly outcast than from a cutthroat social climber. And if being in the Hierarchy meant I was not allowed to hang around with people like Alphard, than I was pretty sure it wasn't for me at all. I thought of Harry, and what he would say if I threw away my identity, if I pretended to be someone I wasn't? What would Ron think if I spent my days kowtowing to Slytherins? What would my parents feel if I befriended the kind of people they spent so much love and care raising me not to be?

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it on my own terms.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny," Juliet was saying. I was vaguely aware of her sharp little fingers gripping my hand. Comforting me, I supposed. "Truly, I am. At least you can take heart in the fact that you will have another chance come Halloween. I know many people who would give anything to have what you have. Please, don't take this too hard. It's only a minor setback."

"It's all right," I said loudly.

Juliet jumped.

"Excuse me? What did you just say?"

"I said it's all right. It's okay. Me not being in the Hierarchy. That's absolutely fine with me. In fact, it's beyond fine. It's brilliant. And I don't want another opportunity to get in, thanks very much." Excitement was bubbling up inside me, infectious. I turned to Alphard, a grin blossoming across my face. "If you could pass that on, I'd be grateful, Alphard."

Alphard looked shaken, but he recovered quickly and beamed at me. "It would be my pleasure," he assured me. "Anything for my foxy lady."

For some reason, these words caused Juliet, who was suffering from a small and thoroughly dignified coronary, to scowl so portentously her sour face blackened like a thundercloud. Why should she have any problem with Alphard telling the Hierarchy I was disinclined to join their ranks and become another social clone? Did she think it would reflect badly on her because she had been sitting beside me at dinner on Monday night? Or was it something else? Either way, she was not impressed. She swept to her feet, tossing her curls back over her shoulder with a contrary _hmpf_.

"Alphard. Come. We're going."

"What?" Alphard blinked, thrown. "What? Going? Where? Why?"

"Does it matter?" Juliet demanded. "We're just going … Lunch. You do want lunch, don't you? You were salivating at the mouth not five minutes ago. Quickly now, before the elves stop serving."

At this very moment Madam MacDuff came bustling down the ward with a laden lunch tray. With her usual fluff and fuss, she set it down by my bed, pausing to plump up my pillows and remark on Alphard's tie.

"And don't you look just marvellous yourself today too, Madam MacDuff," Alphard returned warmly. "Is that a new hat I see, a-perched atop such hair. Why, you must have been up all night curling. What potion do you use? You must give me the recipe. Business needs a lift." He gestured at his own hair, immaculately arranged, and heaved a great sigh.

"Och, aye, yeh young rogue, Alphard Black," tutted Madam MacDuff was a wry smile. "Don't think yeh can pull the wool over my eyes. I may be old owl, tsk, but I'm as wise one."

"That you are, that you are," Alphard agreed. "And that's only one side of you!"

Madam MacDuff clipped him around the ear and returned to her office. I pointed at the food. There was enough to feed an entire army, at that was just with the potatoes. "Help yourselves," I insisted, sipping the pumpkin juice.

"Excellent," Alphard grinned.

Juliet shook her head. "Oh no. It's regrettable, but we simply have no time for food."

It was Alphard's turn to look scandalised. "There is always time for food."

"Not today."

"Then we shall make some. We only have Charms after this. Flitwick's new. He won't mind."

"We must go to class," Juliet called another on excuse with the air of someone grasping at straws. What was she so worked up about? I didn't understand. Nor did I understand why Alphard was working so hard to appease her. "We'll be late."

Alphard checked his watch. "We have another fifteen minutes until the bell rings." He looked confused. He hovered, half-sitting, half-standing, fork in hand, wanting to stay with us both. I shrugged and sighed and gave him a little push in Juliet's direction.

"Go on," I murmured, low so Juliet wouldn't hear. "It's okay. You can go with her."

"But– Lunch– You'll be alone– I... "

"I'm a big girl, I'll be fine," I said, more forcefully. "You can go. Go. Now."

Alphard's face spilt into a grateful smile. "Thanks blondie. I owe you one … I'll be back." And with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

If Alphard did indeed come back later that day, I never found out. Madam MacDuff insisted I take a Dreamless Sleep potion to prepare me for school the next day and I slept through the rest of the day. When I woke up the following morning, however, my bedside chair was adorned with a much-welcomed guest. And, to top it all off, Juliet was nowhere to be seen.

"What did I do to deserve this?" I laughed, buttering toast as Alphard helped himself to a steaming mug of coffee. "My knight in shining armour, _sans_ the Dragon Lady."

Alphard frowned. "Shining? You really think so, blondie?" He glanced down at his outfit, a little peeved. A jaunty green cravat today, to match the emerald cufflinks and silver and green Slytherin tie.

"It's just a saying, silly," I assured him. "Nothing's shining but your shoes." It was true; his ankle boots were so highly polished I could see my face in them.

"I see, I see, I see said the blind warlock. Do you really think Juliet is the Dragon Lady?" Alphard asked thoughtfully, sipping his coffee, a crease between his brows.

I grimaced, not wanting to offend his friend while needing to be honest. "Well, she's not exactly a bundle of laughs."

"I could say the same for you. For everyone here." He sighed. "She obviously wasn't exactly over the moon that I chose to come here this morning. But I decided that your need was greater than mine, and here I am." He grinned, presenting himself.

"Greater than hers, you mean," I corrected.

Alphard shrugged. "That too."

"Thanks."

Once again, Alphard's thoughtfulness had surprised me. He nodded absently and sighed, a deeper, more morose sigh. "Not at all, not at all. Nothing could make me happier than morning coffee with my blondest buddy. Juliet, sadly, on the other hand ..." He pulled a face. "She seemed to think I was using you as some part of a huge scheme to ... scheme things."

I raised an eyebrow. "A scheme to scheme things. Must be schemingly schemeful."

Alphard snorted. "Schemingly schemful? Are they even words, blondie?"

"What are you scheming, Alphard?" I pried. "You know, I can keep a secret."

"I don't doubt that," Alphard chuckled. "You're one big riddle, blondie."

I winced at his choice of words and quickly brushed it off, flailing for words to cover up. "Playing hard to get, are we, Alphard? Tormenting your fair lady by associating with a mere traveller?"

Alphard blushed.

"Can I ask you a question?" I almost demanded.

"Fire away," he muttered, concentrating far too hard on adding milk to his coffee.

I eased the jug from his grasp as the drink turned a sickly beige colour. "Why do you hang around with her? Juliet? Is it because there's no one else, or do you–– "

"You want to know something interesting?" Alphard overrode me in a loud voice. "Your admittance to the Hierarchy was decided by one vote."

Annoyed as I was that he obviously deflected my question, this little tidbit had me shocked and I needed to hear more. "Only one? That's, uh, surprising, to say the least. I thought they all hated me. Especially after the Lestrange thing."

"And the fainting," Alphard reminded me. "Don't forget the fainting."

I glared at him.

"I have to admit I thought it was rather curious myself," he confessed. "Well, when I saw _one _vote, I mean the one vote that _counts_. Regan was willing to accept you, and that's more than enough for most people, but …" He trailed off, giving a little one-sided shrug. "Odd, wouldn't you think? What's Tom Riddle got against little old you?"

At the mention of his name my blood ran cold.

"T-Tom Riddle?"

Alphard nodded. "Yes. I told you I was still friends with some people in the Hierarchy." My brain was too numb to process this little nugget of fact. I was completely agape, aghast, and cold terror was seeping into my stomach like bile. Already I had marked myself out to Riddle, already he knew who I was. I could have kicked myself. Stupid, stupid Ginny. It was the fainting that did it, I was sure. Why else would he notice me? Me, a lowly traveller, when there are people like Regan Trevelyan to talk with.

"You said he's, uh, high up," I gabbled.

"Oh yes. The highest. Has been for years, really. Especially after last year." Alphard made a face. Apparently whatever had happened last year had not entirely agreed with him. Alphard toyed with his lip, his gaze flicking from my face – which I prayed was arranged in an innocently curious expression – to his shoelaces and back again. "Whatever you do blondie, don't go making an enemy out of Tom Riddle."

"Why would I want to do that? Make an enemy out of the most powerful person in the school besides Dumbledore? Seems like a stupid thing to do, really. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

_That's real good advice Ginny_, I thought sarcastically, _why_ _don't you take it? _

Alphard nodded wisely. "The difference between stupidity and genius is genius has its limits."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I've lived with Riddle for just over five years, and I know he doesn't make decisions at the drop of a hat. He must have had a very good reason for wanting you out." Alphard ran a hand through his hair. "Just be careful. He's dangerous."

I nodded, my expression suitably serious. "Thanks for the heads up, Alphard. I'll watch my back."

"T.I.S., blondie," Alphard returned with a shadow of a wink. "This Is Slytherin. That goes without saying. You need eyes in the back of your head to survive breakfast around here. Though I can only imagine what an extra pair of eyes would do to your hair." He aimlessly toyed with his for a moment. Then he fixed me with a piercing stare. "I still remember my trial, before the Hierarchy. I was eleven years old, fresh off the train. My cousins Orion and Lucretia were already at school, and Lucretia was in Fifth Year, so I had the advantage of relatives in the Hierarchy to vouch for me. So did almost everyone in my year: Abraxas had his brother Scorpius; Avery had a brother too, I think. Juliet had her sister Rosaline and Nott, well he had his good name. Good old Raziel Nott had been Head Boy the year before. As First Years went, we were a well-connected lot. But Riddle ... He had nobody. Nothing. Not even a name."

A hush reverence crept into Alphard's voice as he recalled the events. Reluctant, albeit respectful. I leaned in close. Everything I could learn about Riddle would help me. "He went last. We all stayed behind to watch. We had heard stories of the ruling class in Slytherin and were anxious for a demonstration of power. Surely they would make this little Mudblood rue the day he ever set foot in the noble House of Slytherin, we were thinking. They were thinking the same thing too. Anyway, they asked him his name."

"And what did he say?" I breathed.

"He said nothing. He looked right through Scorpius Malfoy and into the fire. It was well past midnight and there was nothing left but embers. And then ... He did it."

"Did what?"

"Spoke it. Parseltongue. Snake language. He opened his mouth and hissed and this gigantic Ashwinder – must have been three feet long, which, I can tell you, for an Ashwinder, is pretty bloody long – came crawling out of the fireplace. The room went wild. People were screaming, shooting hexes, jumping up on chairs, but Tom … he just stood there, in the middle of the room, talking to the snake. It slithered right up to him and coiled around his feet, like a dog. And that was it."

"And that was what?" The story couldn't end there. I was desperate for more. "What happened then?"

"He said whoever doubted the purity of his blood could speak now. No one did. Name or no name, it was obvious he was a Wizard of an ancient bloodline. No one but the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin can speak Parseltongue, everybody knows that."

"Did they allow him into the Hierarchy right then?" I asked, thirsty for information. Anything and everything.

Alphard shrugged. "No. They couldn't. But Iago Lestrange took a certain shine to him and, between you and me and the gatepost, blondie, when Iago Lestrange takes a shine to you there isn't much you can't do. Riddle's been up to his neck in it ever since Scorpius Malfoy left two years ago. And then, after last year ... Might as well be set in stone." Alphard shrugged and caught sight of his watch. "Gulping Gargoyles!" he yelped. "Look at the time! Merlin's holey long-johns, old Kettleburn will feed me to a Manticore if I'm late. Quick, blondie. Get dressed and I'll walk you to class. What do you have now?"

I grabbed my timetable off my bedside table, scanning it feverously.

"Arithmancy."

"Make that _run _you to class. Spit-spot. You get dressed. I'll handle the coffee." Alphard yanked the curtains shut around me and, flopping down into the chair, poured himself another cup of coffee, liberally adding sugar and cream. "Hurry, blondie! Hurry hurry hurry."

I rolled my eyes but complied, mercilessly shoving on my clothes. "Ready," I proclaimed, pushing through the curtains. Alphard took one look at me and choked.

"Oh no."

"What?" I turned in little circles, the best to see myself in the absence of a mirror. I thought I looked all right. Passable, at least. "What?"

"Well, for one, your shirt's buttoned up in the wrong holes. Your tie is completely wrong. And your hair is, if I may say so, _tragic_." He gave his wand a flicked and transformed an empty eggcup off my breakfast tray into a hairbrush, which he proceeded to attempt to assault me with. Suddenly terrified, I squirmed free, raking my fingers through my blonde locks. I couldn't let Alphard touch my hair; a brush would surely pull free a few strands – red strands.

"My hair will survive," I growled, punishing my buttons in through the right holes as Alphard abandoned the brush and went for my tie instead. After a painful five minutes, including a powder puff that was once a banana, newly shined shoes and particularly insulting pocket mirror of Alphard's, I was finally deemed acceptable for class.

"What about Kettleburn's Manticore?" I asked anxiously as we battled our way through the sea of students up to the Fifth Floor and Professor Chance's Arithmancy classroom. According to Alphard, it composed of both Sixth Years and Seventh Years because the numbers seeking the subject were so low.

Alphard winked. "I'll live. Minus a finger or two, perhaps."

"I hope it was worth it."

"Of course. But that hair – You can't evade me forever, blondie," he warned. "Though, personally, I think you'd do better as a brunette. Darker hair would really light up your skin."

I ran the last few steps to Arithmancy. "This is my classroom," I said breathlessly.

Alphard nodded. "Indeed it is. Until next time, fair maiden." He stooped, kissing my hand in farewell. "I say! Harvey! Come back here, old chum ... Wait! No! Dearest, come back! _I just want to talk!_" With one last wink, Alphard was gone, chasing after a pint-size Slytherin who ran as though a dozen Dementors riding Blast-Ended Skrewts were on to him. Shaking my head, I turned into the Arithmancy classroom. It was almost empty, with only a small knot of Ravenclaws adorning the seats near the front and three Slytherins lounging around at the back.

Raphael Nott, Regan Trevelyan and Tom Riddle.

I should have known.

Slowly, like a man approaching the gallows, I walked to the back of the classroom. I couldn't sit with the Ravenclaws; the moment I entered they drew tighter together, making it impossible to intrude. But I couldn't sit with the Slytherins either. I couldn't. Instead I made for the completely empty table by the window. I wasn't a Ravenclaw or a member of the Hierarchy so maybe I could get away with sitting by myself. In fact, by myself was where I would be most comfortable.

"Ginevra!"

I froze.

Little by little, I turned to see Regan waving me towards her. She gave her wand a lazy flick and the empty chair at their table scooted out from under the table. "Sit by me, Ginevra, darling. Ve have so much to talk about."

"I– I– " I stood, stranded, in the middle of the classroom. All at once I knew what it felt like to be rabbit caught in the headlights of a Muggle car. The Ravenclaws were staring at me. Regan was staring at me, her red lips curled into a welcoming smile. Or was it a sneer? It seemed real but I knew there had to be a catch. Alphard said it was she who insisted I get a second chance – Why? Nott was doodling on a spare scrap of parchment, obviously bored. And Riddle. He lounged back on his chair, swinging on two legs, gazing out the window, apparently unfazed by the events unfolding before him.

Regan pointed at the chair, still smiling. "Sit, Ginevra. Sit."

I might have been imagining it, but I swore I saw her steal a glance at Riddle, as though looking for a reaction. I looked at him too. Nothing. I looked out the window, wondering what had captured his attention so, but saw only rain.

The classroom door burst open and Professor Chance came sweeping into the room. "Kindly sit down, Miss," he shot at me, dumping a flood of parchment onto his desk and whacking the blackboard with his wand. Diagrams appeared. Just like that, the lesson had begun. "Continuing on from last lesson. When we applied Pythagoras's theorem to the quantum probability field of numerology …"

Not wanting to miss anything, I hurriedly sat down at the Slytherin's table. The chair Regan had selected for me, right beside her, remained unoccupied, though. I maintained a sliver of independence by selecting the seat furthest as possible away from my fellow Housemates. I ignored the look I knew Regan was subjecting me too, scrabbling in my bag for parchment and quills. But when I looked up it wasn't Regan glaring at me. It was Riddle.

And he was smiling.

"You can come closer, you know," he said softly. "I don't bite."

Mwahahaha! Three months of nothing and then I give you a cliffie! I'm so evil. LOL

And to everyone who was confused as to where Riddle went at the end of the previous chapter, all will be revealed in Chapter Seven.

Cheers, Plonksie


	7. Chapter Seven

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER SIX_

If reviewers were flowers, I'd pick YOU!

_**thngsunvrmention**_ – well, I love Pete just as much as anyone, so here we are, my lovely, updated, just for you. As for Ginny's hair - haven't you ever heard of a little thing called patience?

_**ReadBetweenMyLines**_ – the wait is over! Obviously, seeing as you must have read the whole chapter to be down here at the end of the page reading this review reply. Thanks for loving my story. The love is much returned. I love my reviewers. We have a bond … of love

_**SeekerGirl17**_ – what _Mean Girls _plot? I'm a little confused here. How can you know my story better than I do? This is really puzzling me? Are you a psychic, by any chance? Hmmm? … ponderous … Well, I'm glad you're reading it. The more the merrier!

_**Wallis K.**_ – now that's what I call dedication! Really? You think the tension is mounting? Is it mouting well? Like, credibly? Pray, do tell

_**kaarmae**_ – if you insist

_**kristinsk**_ – no fear of me abandoning this one. And I haven't abandoned _adversus _either, I'm just not feeling it right now. I'm sure I will soon enough: it's been almost a year, for crying out loud! Yes, I am waiting patiently for the muse to strike … And now to business: I'm so relieved you liked the last chapter. There was a load of talking in it and I was scared people would find it boring

_**Kitty Dazzleside**_ – yes, yes I did notice you showering me in compliments. And here, in return for those most wonderful compliments which I noticed were showered upon me by you, I have updated. See?

_**Team Guy of Gisborne**_ – yay! Robin, Robin Hood! God I love that show. And Richard Armitage. Mainly Richard Armitage. Do you watch Spooks at all? He's in that and Christ on a motherfucking bike, he is fine. Fine, I tell you!

* * *

Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas **_– I have so, so, SO much love for that child  
_**

* * *

**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Seven

_  
It's holding me, morphing me, and forcing me  
To strive to be endlessly cold within  
'Cause I want it now, I want it now  
Give me your heart and your soul  
I'm not breaking down, I'm breaking out  
Last chance to lose control  
And I want you now, I want you now  
I feel my heart implode  
_'Hysteria' – Muse

.

(_Tom_)

I looked for her at breakfast on Wednesday morning, my little gypsy, but of the Sixth Years at the other end of the table, there was only the Montague girl. She sat alone, her scowl blacker than ever. Her ability to hold a grudge was quite admirable, though I suspected she lacked the courage to do anything further than glower at her successor down the breakfast table. Challenging Regan, a person of higher rank, would upset the applecart most delightfully, and Juliet Montague was not one to upset so much as a speck of dust on a rotten apple. Pathetic girl.

Those unwilling to lose in order to gain were unworthy of Slytherin.

Her absence vexed me. I had purposely forgone the quiet breakfast the Prefects shared in the Head's common room to see her, and yet she was not here. The reasons why I desired something so trivial, just to see her, were unknown to me. I did not like it, this sudden internal uncertainity, and it was with bad grace I breakfasted. I flicked my wrist at the pot of boiling water and clear liquid splashed into my cup, spilling over the sides and onto the saucer. Beside me Regan raised her eyebrows. She reached out and took hold of the pot, pouring steadily.

"Something wrong, Tom?" she inquired lightly, adding tea leaves to her own cup. I hated tea.

"No."

I sliced a lemon and added it to the boiling water. Regan wrinkled her nose as I took a sip.

"Ah! I not know how you drink that. It's ghastly."

"When I want your opinion Regan, I shall ask for it," I told her curtly.

Regan tossed her magnificent curls over her shoulder, pouting. "Somevun got out of bed on the wrong side this morning."

I said nothing and my eyes slid back up the table to Juliet and the empty seats beside her. Black was also absent. But it mattered not. I would see her in Arithmancy. Slughorn had shown me her timetable the previous evening and it had proven to be a pleasant surprise; we shared numerous classes. Needless to say, I had committed it to memory. "Miss MacKenna will be returning to lessons tomorrow morning Tom," he had confided in me, a paternal arm around my shoulders, an arm I ached to remove. Perhaps remove from his bloated old body. And I could easily do so, with the curses I knew. The summer just gone I had discovered one to slowly poison the body, blackening and burning the skin as it progressed. I ached to experiment with it, to test its effects on real flesh. "You must look after her, as a Hogwarts Prefect and as a friend. She seems so fragile."

"Of course, sir," I vowed.

Slughorn heaved a great sigh, checking the time on the small golden clock I given him last Christmas. "You'd better get going Tom. It's past eleven. You don't want to get into any trouble with the law."

I allowed him a smile. "I am the law, sir."

"Yes, I suppose you are," he chuckled, eying the silver badge pinned to my chest.

"You have no idea."

"Did you say something, Tom?"

"Nothing, sir," I smiled. "Nothing." I thanked him for the wine and excused myself from his office. Standing by the door I heard him muttering to himself.

" … remarkable boy. Remarkable. He'll go far, Horace, old boy. Just you wait and see …"

Remarkable?

Only remarkable?

"Tom! Are you listening to a single vurd I am saying?" Regan's voice brought me back to the present. Exasperated, or desperate for my attention, she pulled at my hand. "Tom? _Cволочь!_"

"Yes, yes," I snapped impatiently, turning to her. "What?"

But whatever she had to say must have been mundane chatter because she said nothing, and instead stared in the direction I had been looking, her eyes slightly narrowed.

"Speak, Regan," I commanded, reminding her that it had been she who had disturbed me, and not the other way around.

"Vot are you looking at?"

"You, unfortunately."

Regan flashed me a white smile. "Vot _vere_ you looking at?"

"Montague," I lied smoothly.

"No. You vere not. You vere looking there." She nodded discreetly towards the empty space next to Juliet.

I sighed with false frustration. "This may have escaped your attention, but there is nobody sitting there. Nothing to look at."

"Not today," muttered Regan.

"Excuse me?"

"There is nobody sitting there today, yes. Monday …" Regan trailed off, shaking her head.

"And what about Monday?" I prompted coldly. Was Regan implying that I was staring at her empty seat? How did she know I was looking that way? Was she watching me? And why? Why was she so interested in this girl? Surely it was only natural to be curious about a new member, as I was, but Regan, her interest was definitely excessive.

Regan twisted a lock of hair around her finger.

"Nothing, Tom. Nothing."

I raised an eyebrow. "Nothing?"

Regan smiled, her mask perfect once more. "Nothing, yes that is vot I say. Vhy? You not believe me? You think me ..." She leaned in close, purring, "untrustvorthy?" Her mouth was turned down in hurt, but her ugly eyes sparkled.

I scoffed. "You would hardly have bothered me for nothing, Regan. You know me better than that."

"Do I?" she mused. "Do I, Tom?" She stood up, probably to relocate beside Lestrange, or someone who would stare at her as she felt she deserved to be stared at. She bent low, her voice hot against my ear, her hand on my thigh. "Ve shall talk later, ven you are ready to be civil."

"Of course," I murmured, catching her hand. "We shall ... talk."

I dug my nails into her palm until I felt the skin break. Regan, to her credit, did not make a sound. She never did.

*** * ***

I walked to Arithmancy with Raphael Nott, leaving Lestrange to escort his fair lady. We made good time and for this I was thankful; I wanted to talk with her before the vultures descended. Whether that applied to my fellow Sixth Years, or Regan, I wasn't sure. Malfoy's crime was obvious lust, easily combatable. He had nothing on me. Regan's was more complicated. She seemed to have developed an obscene fascination with the girl.

When we reached the classroom we found it deserted save for a coven of Ravenclaws. A strange feeling breezed through me like shiver; again she was nowhere to be seen, and, again, it vexed me ... yet it was not anger that made my spine tingle. It was ... disappointment. I was disappointed.

I shook myself and dismissed the feeling. Foolishness, only foolishness.

The Ravenclaws huddled closer together as Nott and I stalked past. Their glares clung to us as we took our usual table at the back of the small classroom. They had not forgotten last year, and they hated us, us Slytherins, for succeeding where they had failed. Gryffindor had their nerve, Hufflepuff had their industriousness, Ravenclaw had their intellect, but Slytherin had the cunning and the power to combine all three and rule dominion over the other, lesser, Houses, unearthing Hogwarts' oldest darkest secret. And the Ravenclaws were jealous. Pleasure coiled up inside me like a snake.

"They hate us, you know," Nott said quietly. "And not just the Ravens. The whole school."

I sneered, lounging back in my chair as if it were a throne. "Let them hate."

_Oderint dum metuant. _

Let them hate, provided they fear.

Seneca, the Roman philosopher, said that. He tutored Emperor Nero, the man who sat still while Rome burned. Some even say he started it. Either way, he blamed the fire on the Christians, just another persecution in a reign fraught with blood and death. And how they hated him. But they tried nothing to ease their suffering at his hands because they were scared, so scared, of the power of the Roman Emperor. Of Caesar.

"Let them hate," I declared, "provided they fear."

"Oh, they're scared all right."

I nodded. I could smell their fear, just as Slytherin's monster, lying in wait below my feet, could smell their fear. How I wished I could unleash it, just once more, just for one more time. The rush of power opening the Chamber awakened in me was toxic. I remember standing there, in the dark and the dark, laughing like the mad blind beggar dancing on Calvary. Drunk on power and dreams.

"Are we still on for tonight?" Nott whispered, steering the conversation in a whole new direction.

"I don't see why not," I replied softly.

"The usual place, I presume."

"Naturally."

Nott nodded once and foraged in his bag for quills and parchment. As he started his incessant scribbling, Regan and Lestrange swept into the room. Some figured them to a royalty of sorts here at Hogwarts, a King and Queen, the golden pair. Lestrange guided his queen across the cramped little room. She pointed at the chair next to mine and he pulled it out with a tight smile in my direction, a gesture I took much pleasure in returning. Lestrange knew his place in the pecking order. If Regan was indeed Queen, he was only King by virtue of association, whereas I was Emperor, ordained by divine right, chosen by God.

I was Caesar.

Lestrange enforced his authority by ignoring Nott, a thoroughly useless endeavour as Nott had not even registered his presence to begin with. If he had not been so dark in colouring, one might have mistaken Lestrange for a Malfoy: petty and pathetic with delusions of personal grandeur.

He bestowed his Queen with a parting kiss, bending low over her neck. "My lord?"

I acknowledged his presence with the curtest of nods.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

Lestrange grinned. "Excellent."

Regan wasted no time in seeking my attention. She leaned towards me across the tabletop while below, unseen, our legs entwined. Her foot slipped free of her shoe and grazed up my calf. Her fingers found mine and I caught a Ravenclaw gazing at me with envy green in his eyes. "So? My Godfather? Vot did he vant vith you on Monday night. It must haff been important. You left so early."

"Hardly," I whispered back, my tone nonchalant. Preparing a _coup d_'_état _was a regular occurrence amongst Grindelwald's men. His arm was reaching further and further across the East, plunging the magical world into chaos while the filthy Muggles scrabbled about on battlefields, adding to the panic. Already the Soviet Union had fallen to his army, along with Bulgaria, Romania, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. In a matter of months we would be marching on Warsaw, and, decimated by the Nazis, Poland would fall.

Personally I thought he was approaching the problem from the wrong angle. Outward violence was a crude and obvious way to gain control of a country. Marching in waving a red flag costs the lives of valuable soldiers and prompts much tiresome resisting from the natives. I was in favour of something more silent, more political; creating a climate of fear where no one knows the enemy is the ultimate achievement.

"Did he give you anything for me?" Regan asked hopefully.

"He wasn't actually there in person. Instead I had Roth and his mindless band of idiots to content with." I scowled. "Honestly. I don't see how he plans to stage a successful revolution with only a mindless ramble of drunken students to his name."

"He has more than a mindless ramble of drunken students," Regan countered.

"Oh really? Enlighten me."

"He has you."

I smirked. "True, true. But I can hardly defeat an entire government by myself now, can I? Poland is weak, but not so much as he thinks. Roth denies this, of course, the fool. He maintains it will weaken further as the Muggle war progress."

"But you disagree."

Regan's hand found my thigh

"Obviously. I think any strategy that depends on Muggles for its effectiveness is blatant stupidity. One cannot rely on a Muggle to fry an egg, let alone win a war. His plan will fail, mark my words."

"What will you do?" she breathed.

I shrugged, swinging back on my chair. Regan's eyes kept my face as she rested her chin on her palm. I consider the matter for a moment. "I will laugh. I will stand there and laugh."

"And say I told you so."

"And say I told you so," I agreed.

She smiled, tossing her head so her hair caught the light. "Tell me, Tom. Is Porthos Depardieu up to his old tricks?"

"If by that you mean inebriated and lustful, then yes. Very much so."

"Oh, don't be so mean," Regan giggled. "I like Porthos."

"The feeling's mutual, I can assure you," I said dryly. "Shall I send him your love?"

"And vat about you?" she whispered, her tone taut.

"What about me?" I asked.

"Don't you like me?"

The classroom door opened with a creak. I glanced up half-heartedly, expecting yet another Ravenclaw, or Professor Chance – but it was her.

Standing stranded in the doorway, she looked so lost. Her eyes soaked up the classroom and its occupants. For a moment fear flickered across her face, then her chin squared with defiance and slowly she began to walk towards the back of the class. As she passed them, the Ravenclaws skulked together, closing their borders. She anticipated this and continued on without batting an eyelid. I expected her to come and sit by us, her fellow Slytherins, but she turned away towards the empty table in the corner. Somehow I didn't think she considered herself unworthy to sit with us, the Hierarchy. I just think she didn't want to. I couldn't help but to smile. Such audacity.

"Ginevra!"

I frowned. Regan was calling her, waving her over, a smile of obscene proportions plastered across her thin lips. She flicked her wand and the empty chair to her right scooted out from under the table. "Sit by me, Ginevra, darling. Ve have so much to talk about."

Darling?

Fury blackened my face and I quickly averted my glare, staring out the window, smoothing out my expression into one of casual indifference.

Reflected in the rain-stained glass I saw Regan order Ginevra into the chair. For a second I felt her eyes on me and kept my expression flawless. But deep inside me, something tingled.

The classroom door flew open and Professor Chance blustered into the room, late as usual. Diagrams appeared on the board and the lesson had begun. I watched her scrambled to prepare herself for Chance's dictations. So she was studious creature. How quaint.

I caught Regan's eye and we exchanged expression of amusement. I had not worked in Arithmancy for years, not in the class itself. I had no need to. Neither did Regan; she copied mine. Nott did his own work, and at a speed that Chance could only dream of achieving. I watched my gypsy work. Her long hair fell in front of her face like a waterfall of glass lace and her mouth moved as she murmured calculations to herself, sometimes counting on her fingers. I wanted to know what her writing looked like. Was it or neat or untidy? Cramped or flowing? Did she use cursive or print? All these questions I needed answers for. I tilted my head ever so slightly to one side and then the other, but she was too far away for me to see the parchment. I consider Summoning it, but then a better idea occurred to me.

I would not be satisfied with a mere piece of parchment.

I leaned towards her across the table. Slowly, she raised her head, and I smiled at her, a smile that no girl could resist.

"You can come closer, you know. I don't bite."

My little gypsy turned a whiter shade of pale.

"Maybe I do," she muttered, edging further away along the table.

A chuckle escaped my lips. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."

"Maybe I'm not."

"Maybe I don't care." I tapped the chair beside me. "Sit."

She bristled, folding her arms and glowering up at me. "Was that a request? Because if you were aspiring to politeness, Mr. Riddle, you've got some way to go, I can tell you."

"Quite the contrary, Miss MacKenna," I replied with quiet velvet. "That was an order."

"An order?" she repeated incredulously. Her voice sank to a waspish whisper, a war of words across the tabletop. I was enjoying myself. This kind a battle I always won. No girl could outwit me. "You obviously don't know me very well, because if you did, you would know to keep your orders to yourself. But seeing as you're new, I'll let it slide this time. A word of warning, though: order me around again, and I'll curse your fat head right off your shoulders!"

Silence hung around the classroom like an impenetrable fog. Up at the blackboard Professor Chance steamed on, oblivious to the fact that his class's undivided attention was now on someone else. The Ravenclaws gawped like Muggles watching their not-so-distant relations swing from trees in the zoo, their saucer-wide eyes flicking from Ginevra to me and back again. Regan hovered, wondering whether to intervene and diffuse the situation as she did so many times in the Slytherin common room … or to leave it run its course. Even Nott had abandoned his scribbles.

My mind was reeling. I doubted she would actually curse me. If she meant to do so she would have gone for her wand before now. It was an empty threat.

But why? Why was it an empty threat? She was certainly angry enough. I could feel it rolling off her tiny frame in waves, crackling through the still air like an energy. I could feel her power. Her eyes burned into mine, so hot with rage the irises seemed to melt. Melted chocolate swirling into a black hole. Melted chocolate fire.

So why didn't she curse me?

Did she know that if she lifted a wand in my direction it would be the last thing she ever did?

And would I – would I really hurt her?

She was on her feet, her hands balled into fists, shaking and burning with this anger. Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her chest heaved, the veins on her neck standing up, and her white checks flushed a heavy red. Her eyes burned bright.

And I saw her, like this, flushed and messy, below me. Below me in every sense of the word. But then I blinked and it was gone.

I let my chair fall forward. The sound of the legs hitting the stone flags echoed around the classroom. A sneered snaked its way across my face as I raised my head to meet her eyes.

"Are you going to bark all day little doggie ... or are you going to bite?"

The class inhaled as one.

"Excuse me?" she seethed.

"I said are you going to bark all day little doggie, or are you going to bite?" I asked pleasantly.

This was proving to be the most exciting Arithmancy class I had ever attended.

"One reason. Just give me one bloody reason, and so help me, I will kill you."

"Is that a threat?" I inquired silky.

Gypsy struggled for words. "Yes," she choked out. "_Yes._"

I was toying with her. Pulling her apart like a crow does a hard crust thrown out by a charitable human, pecking away at the tough exterior until it reaches the softness inside.

I felt a hand brush my leg. A warning. "Stop it, Tom," Regan muttered. "This is getting ugly."

"Oh no. This is just getting started," Ginevra vowed. Her entire body shook with ire. Just seeing her blaze so made my throat ache raw.

"Goody-goody. I'm having so much fun."

"I'll give you fun," she spat. "I'll give you the best fun you've ever had, Riddle."

"Promise?" I teased.

"Stop it!" Regan commanded. She glared at me, hissing, "Didn't your mother ever teach not you to play vith your food?"

The gypsy began to laugh. She threw back her head and howled up at the ceiling, up through the ceiling at the sky, past the thunder and the lightning and the clouds and sun and right up to god, she laughed. She closed her eyes tight, tears streaming down her face, her hands clenched into tight fists, all shaking, as she fought to control herself.

Personally, I couldn't see what was so funny.

"But you don't have a mother," she cackled. "Or a father. You have no one. You're alone. They abandoned you, didn't they. Your own parents abandoned you. And who could blame them? Who could blame them! You're a monst– "

The window shattered.

I was suddenly aware I was on my feet. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. My hands trembled and I could not hold them still. A sudden cold swept the room as rain came whistling in through the broken window, but no amount of water would ever extinguish the fire consuming me. It burned like Hellfire, boiling through my veins, igniting every inch of my being, yet there was no heat. There could be no heat.

How did she know? How could she know? How dare she know?

My hand was outstretched, fingers curled like claws. I wanted nothing more to close them around her white throat and rip out her heart. Iced closed around my heart. I wanted to kill and no amount of witnesses would stop me.

The gypsy's mouth continued to move but no sound came out. Her eyes screamed in terror, and in her eyes I saw myself reflected.

Then I saw it. A fire. A dying ember still glowing the depth of her eyes. Her jaw was set. She was scared yet she stood her ground. Stood against me, against Lord Voldemort, when all others ran.

Blood pounded through me and my body ached for the warmth she possessed, for the fire in her. I wanted her to burn me. I wanted to feel her fire against my skin, inside my skin. I wanted her, wanted her, wanted her. My anger was eclipsed by my desire. I had to taste her, her fire, her blood, her essence, her soul. If I could have her I could have fire. I was man with no fire, no heat, and she was Prometheus sent down from on high to bestow me with an illegal gift. She would melt the ice in my veins, complete me once again. With her soul combined with mine I would be immortal with no need of outside help. With her soul I would be fire, something so beautiful, so terrible, unstoppable destruction.

I had to have her.

My hand closed around her wrist. Her skin was so soft, so warm. Already I could feel it soaking through my skin.

"Let go of me!" she screamed. She tried to rip her hand free.

"Oh no. Little girls who call other people nasty names deserve to be punished."

"Let me _GO!_"

My whole hand was warm now. It tingled, buzzing, the feeling seeping up my arm like water. Professor Chance was still conversing with the blackboard.

"I didn't you hear me the first time? I said no."

"_SECTUMSEMPRA!_"

She threw her hand at my face and I felt a sudden cold. Regan screamed. She was not the only one. There was a wetness on my face, like a tear, but I wasn't crying. My vision blurred to red. I touched a hand to my face. It came away red. Blood.

I was bleeding.

The gypsy had cursed me with some unknown gypsy curse and I was bleeding. I spat out a mouthful, salt and rust. No one had made me bleed before. She had done so without a knife, a wand, anything.

"You made me bleed," I whispered.

She wrenched her hand free. I let it go. I was preoccupied, staring at my other hand, the one with red fingers, dripping.

"You made me bleed."

My head snapped up and blood splattered her face. It caught her hair, dying it red.

A red-haired gypsy. My red-haired gypsy.

She knew she was in trouble this time. So she did the smart thing. She turned and ran. She fled the classroom, running, and never looked back. She ran away. From me.

The door slammed and Professor Chance spun around.

"What's going on? Who left my class? What are you all looking at? You should be looking at the blackboard!" He rapped it smartly with his wand, glaring at the class. "The answer isn't written on Tom's forehead! Everyone! The blackboard! Now!"

Shakily Regan got to her feet. She handed me a silk handkerchief embroidered with Lestrange's initials. Her eyes were sparkling, but not with some vindictive glee or triumph. Instead, with tears. "Here." She pressed the handkerchief on me. "Tom. Take it."

I eyed the handkerchief with obvious revolution. "And why would I want Lestrange's filthy rag?"

Regan said nothing. She held the material to my face and took my hand, placing it over the makeshift bandage. Her skin was clammy. I shuddered at her touch. "Hold that. I take you to Hospital Ving."

"I am perfectly capable of taking myself."

Regan didn't look convinced but she let me go. As I opened the door Professor Chance turned on me. "And where do you think you're going, Tom?"

"The Hospital Wing, sir. I'm bleeding." I showed him my bloodstained hand in proof.

Professor Chance blinked. "Oh. I see. Well, off to the Hospital Wing with you. Get yourself cleaned up and back here quickly, if you please … Corner! Why aren't you looking at the blackboard?"

I sat still as Madame MacDuff tended to my wounds, painful as her remedies were. The pain fuelled my thoughts. I wasn't worried by my Gypsy's flight. She would come crawling back. She was only a girl. They always did. I would wait. I was patient. I had all the time in the world.

* * *

Sooo … What do people think? Was it OOT? OOC? I hope it was okay … (looks nervous). I'd really appreciate feedback on this one.

Anything you recognise isn't mine, especially the Reservoir Dogs quote. There are only a few people whom my moral compass just refuses to let me steal from and Quentin Tarrintino is one of them. He is one savage cabbage

Did I spell Tarrintino right?

Reviews, as always, are LOVE

Cheers, Plonksie


	8. Chapter Eight

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER SEVEN  
_

I thanked everyone who submitted signed reviews personally, _**deeps85**_, _**LarkaSpirit**_,_**liltrick89**_, _**moony391**_, _**Wallis K.**_, _**Lummylicious**_, _**cutieme012**_, _**thngsunvrmention**_, _**SlytherinPrinzessin**_, _**Casimir Paulaski Day**_, _**dreammmy .K**_, _**indigo8795**_, _**Cadaverous Apples**_, _**Team Guy of Gisborne**_ – you guys are the fictional equivalent of peanut butter, AKA essential to life as we know it

_And the unsigned reviews:_

_**Sophia Supernova**_ – yeah, finally. I hate those fics were she's like a fecking Flobberworm, yes Tom no Tom three bags full Tom. Glad that you find Tom ... creepy. As for dear Regan. Well, I can freely tell you that she is NOT a vampire. Never EVER in my fics will you find anything remotely resembling a bloodsucking fiend ... except maybe a lawyer. LOL. But what she wants with Ginny? I can hardly tell you that, can I? I'm feeling the Alphard love. Thanks

_**hellscrimsonangel**_ – I'm honoured you thought my fic was good enough to merit a review (though I do recommend you join the review revolution and review everything you read). Tom's wealth? What wealth? He's naught but a poor orphan with extraordinary talent and irresistible good looks. LOL. Nah, he got into the Hierarchy (and I think I gave a little spiel on this) because he could speak Parseltongue, which was obviously a sign of a very powerful dark wizard, blah blah blah. Personally, I find the fics where he has no friends or anything a little retarded, because according to Rowling he's meant to have a little band of not-so-merry men at his beck and call. Ditto above what I said about me hating a Flobberworm Ginny. As for the end - I actually figured it out a few days ago and I really like it. Hopefully you will too. And, no, Ginny can't speak Parseltongue. No offence, but that's ludicrous. Thanks so much, it was a fantastic review

_**Kitty Dazzleside **_– ditto ditto what I said about hating Flobberworm Ginnys. And you know what they say about expectations.

_**kristinsk**_ – ditto ditto ditto Flobberworm Ginnys. LOL. Yeah, I always write dialogue and reflection. I think too much dialogue robs the thing of deeper character, because you think and feel so much more than you say; and what about descriptions? "Wow. This room is amazing. Just look at the long central table surrounded by hardbacked green-leather upholstered chairs." LOL. And I find fics that are all reflection tend to get bogged down and boring and lack reality because conversation is such an important part of human life. Thanks for the review

* * *

_Beta'd by __**pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**_

**FIRE & ICE**

Chapter Eight

_  
Ice  
Your only rivers run cold  
These city lights  
They shine in silver and gold  
Took from the night  
Your eyes as black as coal  
Walk on by, walk on through  
Walk 'til you run and don't look back  
For here  
I am_  
'The Unforgettable Fire' – U2

.

(_Ginny_)

I thought he was going to kill me. I thought I was going to die, right there, on the classroom floor. Here lies Ginevra Weasley. A lover and a fool.

Because I was both.

A fool for love, a fool to love, a love fool, a fool who loved not as she should a creature made of clay, and when the angel woos the clay he'll loose his wings at the dawning of the day.

But I was no angel. I was a scared little girl running for my life.

I ran until my lungs burned and my side ached, until my legs turned to lead and my heart went bang-bang-bang in my mouth, and then I ran faster. Teachers called after me as I sprinted desperately down corridors, students scattered as I flung myself down the marble staircase. Out the doors in the great wide world, across the lawns, I skirted the lake and dived into the sanctuary of the Forbidden Forest. I was mindless, but this was no mindless running. I had a destination. The Time-Turner and Harry's Invisibility Cloak lay buried in the hollow of a tree just off the clearing I had materialised in.

My plan was simple. I would find the clearing, unearth the Time-Turner and escape.

I couldn't do this. I could not do this. I would go forward a few years, find another way. I would go back a few years, find another way. There had to be another way. I couldn't do this.

But I couldn't go back.

Not to my time, not to this time.

As I plunged deeper into the forest the light grew dim and green and I ground to a halt. Doubled-over, I clutched at a trunk tree, gasping for breath. Relentless, I pushed myself upright and staggered on, walking down through cool emerald. I knew it would take me hours to find the clearing without help so I pulled out my wand from up my sleeve and placed it on my palm. If I used the _Point Me_ spell Harry had shown me I would find it in a matter of minutes.

Then I slipped my wand back up my sleeve.

"_Point me_," I whispered, concentrating with all my might on the clearing and the tree with its marking. "_Point me_."

Nothing happened.

But before ... back in the classroom ... I hadn't even considered taking out my wand. The words just came and I shouted them and it happened. Just like magic. And I had felt it. The magic. Bubbling up inside me like molten lava. I was a volcano, dormant for a thousand years and then, when you're least expecting it, BANG! Active. Fire. Destruction.

I felt nothing of that fire now. I guessed there were a whole host of reasons for this. I had never succeeded in using wandless magic before. I needed more practice. I needed to know the theory. I needed that raw energy, that power, needed to feel it inside me.

I needed him.

Too drained to continue attempting wandless magic, I went for my wand and cast the spell. My wand swivelled around my palm and juddered to a halt pointing due east. I trudged on, using _Diffindo _on overfriendly brambles. The clearing loomed out of nowhere, the familiar tree with the lonely scrap of white cloth tied tight around the lowest branch. I fell to my knees before it. My hands scrabbled in the dirt as I ripped away the natural camouflage hiding the crevice in the tree stump in which I had stuffed the cloak. The Cloak came free, running down my battered fingers like a warm bath. Soothing. I eased it from with trembling hands and buried my face in it.

It smelt of Harry.

As the folds rippled free the Time-Turner tumbled to the earth. It winked gold amidst the mud, a magpie's best friend. I found myself wondering what it would be like to be a magpie, constantly searching for that little bit of gold in the coal mine, that something precious in a world such as ours. It must be so disappointing, so unfulfilling, so cold … but did that just make the sweet even sweeter? When you found that little bit good amongst the ugliness did you want to sing it from the mountaintop? Did it make you smile?

I smiled. _Find the good amongst the ugliness_.

Something Dumbledore would say.

I sat back on the forest floor, twisting the Time-Turner's chain around my hands. Everything was soft and green. The sound was turned down, the outside world buffered by the trees. I wasn't scared of the forest's inhabitants; centaurs, Acromantula, unicorns – they awoke nothing in me. Nothing would ever beat the look in his eyes when my spell sliced his own face.

It was as if ice consumed his very eyes, infecting, a disease.

The temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees as his anger swelled like storm. He hadn't understood at first. I had seen confusion flicker in his eyes as he had stared down at his stained hands. But then all was illuminated and Lord Voldemort stared out at me through blue eyes. Because he had the bluest eyes, the bluest eyes. Drowning pools. They sucked you in, hypnotising you, and you teetered on the brink of a blue abyss thinking that free-falling wasn't such a bad idea. It was funny, I thought, ironic even, that Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore had almost identical eye colour. People always assumed he had dark eyes, Riddle, to match his dark heart, but they just weren't looking hard enough. They were a piercing light blue. And that wasn't the only similarity. Dumbledore's eyes were warm and welcoming, twinkling like guiding stars. Riddle's eyes were like stars too: distant, cold and unreachable.

_twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are up above the clouds so high like a diamond in the sky twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are up above the clouds so high like a diamond_

Like diamonds they gleamed and glistened, hard, unbreakable, they reflected the light of everyone around them but gave off none themselves. There was nothing inside but hard rock, the hardest substance known to man. They were such cold stones, diamonds, but beautiful. Achingly beautiful.

_twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are up above the clouds so high like a diamond in the sky twinkle twinkle_

It was such a pity to lose such pretty diamonds.

_like a diamond in the sky twinkle twinkle little star_

The tiny hourglass glittered on a stray sunbeam, splitting the light into a tiny rainbow. It jolted me back to reality, back to where I was, Ginny MacKenna, sitting on the forest floor with a Time-Tuner in her hands, about to become Ginny No-Name again.

But it was such a pity to lose such pretty diamonds.

I took a deep breath and–

"Hello? Is anybody there? Hello!" Crashing in the undergrowth. "Gulping Gargoyles! _Ginny!_"

It was Hagrid. He was holding up a lantern. "Ginny! Thank Merlin yeh're safe! I'm bin lookin' all over fer yeh! Almost bin ter Hogsmeade and back! I was real worried, like … thought maybe yeh'd been, y'know … _eaten_." Hagrid blushed furiously in the light of his lantern.

I threw Time-Turner around my neck, hastily tucking it down under my robes.

"Ginny … It's okay. It's me. Hagrid. Yeh're okay now." Hagrid was edging across the clearing towards me, carefully carefully, one step at a time, as if I were a particularly murderous Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Yeh're safe now. I've got yeh. C'mon … get yeh back to the castle or Professor Dumbledore'll be after my liver. We was all so worried about yeh. He'll be right glad ter know yehr safe."

I didn't understand. What was he talking about? Why would Dumbledore be looking for me? And why would be worried? Was I trouble? I guessed I must be. I had cast a deadly curse on a fellow student. Perhaps I would even be expelled. Dread filled me, soaking through my skin like cold rain.

If I was expelled, where would I go?

"Here." Hagrid held out a huge hand to me. I took it without thinking and this surprised him.

Was he scared of me? Because of what I did to Riddle? Did he think I would hurt him too? The thought of Hagrid thinking me a danger struck a chord deep inside me. I felt shaken, almost ashamed. Suddenly I was falling, and warm arms came rushing up to meet me.

"Easy!" Hagrid exclaimed. "Watch it now. Yeh don't want to go hurtin' yehrself."

Darkness was bearing down me on all sides and there were no stars above, only blackness.

"It's so dark," I whispered.

Hagrid nodded wisely. "It's night."

"What?" I cried. "No! It can't be! I was just in Arithmancy! … Just after breakfast … I – I – I– " I gazed up at him, needing him to tell me what I wanted to hear.

"Yeh've been gone all day. Dumbledore came down ter my hut 'round lunch and said ter check the forest fer yeh," Hagrid told me gently. "He was right worried … So was I."

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay. We all need time ter ourselves. We're only human."

"Are we?"

Hagrid chuckled. "I certainly 'ope so!"

I tried to smile but my facial muscles seemed to have forgotten how. We walked in silence for some time, until the canopy overhead thinned out and the stars came shining through. Through the trees ahead I could see the twinkling lights of the castle. "I'm sorry I wasn't better company. I'm a little disorientated at the moment."

"I think yehr fine comp'ny," Hagrid blurted.

I glanced up into his beetle-black eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. "Thanks, Hagrid," I said quietly.

"Yeh got blood on yehr face," he said, anxious. "Yeh're not hurt, are yeh?"

His blood.

I remembered how it felt, hitting my face. It had been… _cold_. His blood was cold. Ice cold. His skin when he grabbed my wrist, like ice, creeping up my arm, kidnapping me, wrapping me up in a blanket of silver winter. As my hand cooled, his heated. It was like burning and freezing all at once. Leech-like, his touch sucked at my warmth. It was dizzying, exhilarating, torture and ecstasy.

And I wanted to do it again.

And I wanted to boil my face in Basilisk venom to erase all traces of Tom Riddle from my flesh.

But I wanted to do it again.

This scared me.

"Here." Hagrid offered me a spotted handkerchief the size of a small bath towel. "Fer the blood," he added anxiously. "Yeh don't have ter keep it, or anythin'."

"Thanks." I damped the edge of the handkerchief with my wand and rubbed it over my face. Hagrid lowered the lantern so I could see better. The water refreshed me, igniting new life. I presented my face to Hagrid. "Did I get it all?"

"Nah. There's some over yer eye."

"Here?" I scrubbed with the hankie.

"Little ter the left … Up … No, too far … Right a bit …"

"You do it!" I laughed, thrusting the handkerchief back at its owner. "I'll hold the lantern."

Tentatively, with the gentlest of touches, Hagrid began to wipe the dried blood from my face. Above my left eye, splattered across my cheek, just by my lips. I shuddered to think I had been that close to swallowing a little bit of Riddle. Hagrid seemed just as glad that it was over as I was. "All gone," he said, heaving the sigh of a returning war hero. He crumpled up the hankie and shoved it back into his pocket.

"Thanks. For finding me. And the hankie."

"Any time."

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

I skipped dinner that night. Even though I had no work to do, I skulked in the library until a very young Madam Pince threw me out at eleven o'clock. I couldn't face them, face him. Surely the whole of Slytherin – the whole school – knew what had transpired this morning. I had wounded their king, Delilah cutting Samson's hair, and in public too. As I trudged down to the dungeons I swore I could hear the executioners' drums pounding away, at one with the rhythm of my frantic heart. There was no way their pride would let this stand.

I wandered about the dungeons, searching for an unused storeroom I could hold out in until the crowd that would surely be dissecting this morning in the common room to disperse. It wasn't fear or embarrassment. It was pure self-preservation.

After trying several doors, all of which were locked, I was about to give up and slink back into common room, perhaps under a Disillusionment charm, when, in resigned desperation, I gave the potion's classroom door a rattle. It swung open. Slughorn had left it unlocked. I frowned. It was stupid, really, leaving the door open; the room was full of valuable ingredients and equipment. Slughorn was the last person I expected to leave his treasures unguarded. Perhaps he kept everything of real importance in his office? Curious, I peeked inside. As expected, the classroom was deserted. But as for the valuables, a small, solid gold, cauldron stood on the teacher's desk. It worth more than dad had earned in a whole year – maybe in ten years. And Slughorn had just left it there. Perhaps he was being subtle. I sniffed around for enchantments, my senses honed from the war, but found nothing. It was completely unguarded. Like it was waiting for someone. A little factory of illegal potion making, perhaps? Get your homemade poisons, half-price for all Slytherins.

I backed out and shut the door, and banged right into––

"Sure if it isn't the wee Irish fox I've after bin lookin' fehr all night!"

I hit the floor, scrambling forwards on my hands and knees, hands scrabbling for my wand. I flipped over, still on the floor, and turned my wand on my assailant. "Stay back! I have Bat-Bogey Hex and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Would yeh calm down, for Christ's sake," returned the voice in a thick Irish brogue. It was Fenian Casey, the carrot-haired Irishman who defended me from Lestrange at my initiation. The fact that he was Irish consoled me. That fact that he appeared to be completely insane did not.

He had come to kill me. I was positive.

I scuttled further backwards. "Stay back!"

He ignored my command completely, tramping towards him like he was navigating a particularly treacherous bog and not smooth stone flags. He didn't even have his wand. My wand was suddenly shaking. My voice went up an octave in pitch.

"I said _stay back_."

"_Cuinis, mo chara,_" Fenian whispered, pressing a finger to his lips.

Whatever _mo chara _meant I did not want to know. It sounded painful. I scrunched my eyes shut, not really wanting to witness my own disembowelment.

"Get it over with," I forced out through gritted teeth.

Fenian blinked "Get what over with?"

"Just kill me fast, okay. You can torture me when I'm dead. They won't know the difference, and, even if they do, it'll be too late, so–– "

"What, in the name of God, are yeh on about, _cailín_? Sure, yeh're as mad as the Wise Man of Kerry."

I froze.

"So … so you haven't come to kill me?"

"Kill yeh! Sure why would I be wanting to kill yeh, like?"

"Besmirching the honour of the noble House of Slytherin."

"What honour?" Fenian chuckled. I took that as a negative, but I still wasn't taking any chances.

"How about torturing me?"

"No," he said cheerfully, shaking his shaggy carrot head.

"Removal of limbs?"

"No."

"Physically, emotionally or mentally scar me in any way, in this life or the next?"

"No."

I deflated a little. "Oh."

Fenian rolled his eyes. "And what would ever give yeh that idea?"

"What wouldn't give me that idea?" I challenged.

Fenian chuckled darkly, shrugging. It was not a reassuring sound. "'Tis true, I suppose."

"So neither you nor anyone else in any other House, or any the staff – or House Elves," I had to cover all my goalposts, "… or portraits, magical creatures, Greenhouse plants or enchanted suits of armour has been given the green light to decapitate me for carving up Riddle's face?"

Fenian thought about it for a moment, scratching his hand and looking like a large, drunk, ginger gorilla.

"No."

I folded my arms tight across my chest while keeping my wand firmly fixed between his permanently crossed eyes. "Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Do I look like a Holy Father to yeh? Believe what yeh will."

"I will," I retorted defiantly.

"I'm sure yeh will." Fenian sat down on the stone beside me. "But believe yeh this. If yeh were anyone else, there would be ructions. Yeh've got yerhself _cúpla cairde_ in high places, MacKenna. And lucky for yeh, 'cause otherwise, we wouldn't be havin' this lovely little chat here. Like yeh said, it wasn't just Riddle yeh insulted this morning. It was the whole House. And yeh did it in public. To be fierce frank, like, _mo chailín_ – yeh should be dead."

"I– I don't understand," I stammered. Not that I wasn't overjoyed and everything and about being granted clemency, I just could not begin to fathom why. First they don't want me in the Hierarchy, but they give me a second chance. Then I use their leader as target practice in front of a bunch of snotty Ravenclaws and get off scott free.

Fenian raised a ginger eyebrow. "I think yeh do. Yeh just don't want to."

"What? No. I …"

When the answer finally hit me it was not pleasant one.

Fenian said I had _cúpla cairde _in high places. Friends. But who? Certainly not Malfoy or Lestrange, and neither of them had any power anyway, which left only Regan ... But why would she want to be my friend? And even if she had, all amicable feelings had probably gone up in smoke when I accidentally sliced up her boyfriend. Nor was she the highest power. According to Alphard, she had wanted me in the Hierarchy from the start, but someone had overridden her.

And only one person could override Regan.

Riddle had pardoned me himself.

This scared me even more.

Harry had told me a story that Dumbledore had once told him. There was once an Emperor with power all over the land. With the click of his fingers he could end a man's life. One day a criminal was brought before him for sentencing. The man expected death and threw himself at the Emperor's feat, screaming for mercy. And the Emperor, who could have had him killed him on the spot, said 'rise, my friend, you are pardoned'.

When I asked what happened to the criminal, Harry pulled a face. "The Emperor had him shot the next day."

_That_ was power.

And that was the power he had over me.

"I told yeh yeh wouldn't like it," Fenian said with a grin. "But if yeh ask me, yeh've got bigger fish to fry."

"Really?" I snapped sarcastically. "What problem could possibly be bigger than having a murdering psychopath … doing … well …" I had no idea what he was doing. " –doing whatever it is that murdering psychopaths do when they feel murderous and physcopathic! Because, if you have one, please tell me and I'll add it to the pile."

"Riddle isn't a murdering psychopath," Fenian said lightly.

"You could have fooled me."

"He's just a murderer. There's a difference, _mo chara_, and mind yeh mind that, or yeh'll be gettin' yehrself into some fierce trouble."

"Wow. I wonder what being in trouble is like?"

Fenian shot me a furtive look from under his transparent eyebrows. "There's trouble, _cailín_, and then there's trouble."

"I'm guessing this is the latter."

He nodded.

I shivered. Slowly, my eyes met Fenian's. Despite his fearsome exterior, they were warm. A brilliant green. Just like Harry's.

"He's really angry at me, isn't he?" I whispered.

Fenian barked with laughter. "Riddle? Sure, are yeh jokin' me? I said yeh have a _problem_, not a death sentence. No, sure, it's Regan that's sharpening her axe."

"What?" I gasped. "Regan? … _Why?_ What did I ever do to her? – It was _Riddle_ I cursed, not her. I didn't tou– "

"Yeh do know together, don't yeh?" Fenian demanded, interrupting me.

"To...gether?"

"_Together_, like."

"No!" My eyes were as round as saucers. Riddle … and _Regan?_ "But I thought – Lestrange – I …"

Fenian nodded grimly. "And yeh do know that Regan wanted yeh in the Hierarchy?"

I nodded, my throat dry. "Yeah. I knew. Alphard told m– "

"GINNY! GINNY! _GINNY!_"

Alphard came charging down the corridor, wand aloft, Juliet at his heels. He leapt into my arms, hugging me so tight I felt like I was home. "Merlin, Ginny. I was so worried. Nott said you ran off … The Forest … Ginny." He withdrew, suddenly cold. "Promise me you'll never pull a stunt like that again. Ever."

"Alphard," I gasped, shocked and deeply touched by his concern. Guilt flooded through me, piercing me like an arrow. Hagrid, Alphard, Dumbledore – even Juliet, (maybe); all had been worried about me. I felt like a little girl who ran off in Diagon Alley, enchanted by a dazzling new display, completely oblivious to the horror her mother was experiencing trying to find her child again. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I am. I completely lost track of time. I– "

Alphard glowered. "_Promise._"

"I promise," I swore solemnly.

"You promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

"You _promise_ you promise?"

I nodded. "Yes, yes. I do. I promise."

And Alphard smiled. "That's three times you've promised, blondie. You can't go back on that."

I grinned weakly. "Don't want to."

"I'm glad," Juliet began in a tremulous voice, "that you are alright, Ginny … I thought … You must truly have the luck of the Irish. Riddle decided not to press charges. That's unprecedented! Better people than you have been excommunicated for misdeeds trivial in comparison."

"Thanks Juliet. Sorry if you were worried," I added, not feeling as guilty.

Fenian rolled his eyes. "Speak of the Devil– "

"And the Devil he appears."

In the fraught light of the torches Riddle looked like half his face was missing. Madam Shepherd had obviously been unable to find a cure for Snape's _Sectumsempra_. A raw red line split the left side of his face, starting just above his eyebrow, bisecting his eye and running down his cheek. He looked a pantomime villain, standing there, all in black, crowned in shadow, dark blood staining the collar of his white, white shirt.

Cold blood.

To think that I did that. That I marked him, scarred him. It was like I had given him a piece of me.

"And I'll never let it go," he murmured, cold breath on my ear, cold fingers in my mind, as he swept past.

* * *

A few quick translations:

_cuinis _– quiet, hush, be silent

_mo chara _– my friend

_cúpla cairde _– a few friends

_cailín _– girl

_mo chailín _– my girl

I got such AMAZING feedback after the last chapter I ran out this chapter. Thanks SOOOOO much and, please, keep it up. Reviews make me want to write.

Cheers, Plonksie


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **just a little note to say that a certain potion is mentioned in this chapter, and before I get a load of people yelling at me that it's not how it works, just remember this is a fanfic. And besides, I dredged through miles of cyberspace to find a hint of how one might go about making such a concoction and found _nada_, so I think I'm justified in making it up

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER EIGHT:_

Okay, rant over. To business: reviews. I replied to all the signed ones personally, but here's another thanks: _**Lady Emme**_, _**Imi**_, _**DawnFire and Silver Huntress**_, _**Robinjay**_, _**Mystycal**_, _**crazyelf22**_, _**VenomousSilver**_, _**mistpool32132**_, _**Molly Goode**_, _**TheAmberLion**_, _**daydreamer8795**_, _**Team Guy of Gisborne **_(sorry, but I'm a Robbie fan. C'mon. It's an epic love story. Stop getting in the way of destiny … even if Richard Armitage is … okay, wait, now I'm drooling. But still. Robin Hood. And, what's more dude, he's IRISH. I rest my case! … Richard Armitage. Mmmmmm … )

And the unsigned ones:

_**deeps85**_ - well, clever girl to you too for figuring out what Regan figured out. Glad that you like Alphard and Fenian. I want them to be real, but not overbearing and show-stealing and some OCs come to be. Because this fic is so dark (or, at least, I think it is), Fenian and Alphard will be my little comic relievers. Thanks for the review

_**Kaarmae**_ - thanks. Always nice to know when one's appreciated!

_**ExSquared**_ - pantomime villain, excuse me! … Oh, wait, no, I wrote that, didn't I? (Oh yes you did! Oh no I didn't) Whoops. And here was me going to go all apeshit on you for calling my intricately crafted sinisterly brooding Riddle a pantomime villain. LOL. Thanks for the review

_**Casimirpaulaskiday**_ - awww, you're so sweet. I don't believe you actually went and copied and pasted it. I love you, no, I really do. And you honour me with your praise, but I think I'll stick to FF for now. Maybe some day. Thanks, again

_**X**_ - now there's anonymity if e'er I saw it! Love you too, Mr. X. Thanks for the review

_**Kitty Dazzleside**_ - why Ginny surrounded by angry students? I didn't get that. Is it just me, or does your brain work in an exceedingly complicated fashion. Please, do explain. I'm rather intrigued. Thanks for the review.

* * *

_Beta'd by __**pop-pop-bananas**_. Have a banana, darling. Love you!

* * *

**Fire & Ice**

Chapter Nine

_  
Did they lay down a law and lock up your heart?  
Gonna have to steal your love  
Some laws should be broken from the start  
Gonna have to steal your love  
You ain't about to give it up for no one  
Gonna have to steal your love  
I don't need a knife and I don't need a gun  
I know how to steal your love_  
'Steal Your Love' – Lucinda Williams

.

(_Ginny_)

_And I'll never let it go_.

Those were the last words he said to me in weeks. We were approaching Halloween and all was silent. He wore his scar with dignity, that much I could award him. Somehow it made his perfect – too perfect – features seem more … human. Still an angel carved from ice, except they had hacked off his wings and now he could only walk in the mud with the sinners and the weak.

I sat with the Ravenclaws in Arithmancy. They had welcomed me into their bosom with open arms. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. But as soon as I left the classroom their smiles cracked. People whispered about me wherever I went. They called me the Gypsy. Apparently I learned gypsy magic from my mother who made human sacrifices at the full moon. Apparently I learned gypsy magic from my father who was burned at the stake by the wild Muggles of Ireland for his crimes. Apparently I learned gypsy magic from my grandmother who danced with the Devil 'til dawn in red shoes. Apparently I learned gypsy magic from my older brother who played cards for human souls. Apparently I was a thousand years old and retained my youth by bathing in the blood of virgin Muggles

Apparently I could make any man fall I love with me just by looking at him.

Apparently I could kill a man just by looking at him

Either way no man would look at me. Except for Alphard. And Hagrid. We had become friendly since the incident in the Forbidden Forest and when the whispers become too much I would sneak down to the sanctuary of his tiny hut. He made me steaming mugs of tea and inedible rock cakes. Once or twice I even dragged Alphard along. He was more than willing, though Juliet turned up her pretty little nose and point blank refused to go near 'that savage's hut', so he didn't accompany me often.

With one week to go to Halloween, darkness set in at seven o'clock, heavy and cold. Hagrid insisted on accompanying me back up the castle after we had had dinner together in his hut. "It's dark out there," he said, indicating the blackened windows a little unnecessarily. I didn't see a point in arguing so together we hiked up the velvet lawns by the light of my wand. We entered the Entrance Hall just as everyone was finishing dinner and the crowd swelled around us like some living thing.

"I had a great time Hagrid. Thanks."

"And the rock cakes weren't too hard?" he pressed anxiously.

"They were, um, interesting," I said diplomatically.

Hagrid's beetle-black eyes crinkled into a smile. "When will I see yeh again?"

I shrugged. "Soon, I s'ppse."

"Good. Tha's good … I like bein' with yeh," he blurted suddenly.

"Me too," I replied with a smile. "Me too– "

A high cackle of derisive laughter exploded behind him. "Now _this_ is just _precious_!" howled Abraxas Malfoy. "The_ oaf_ is in _love_ with the _gypsy_! Quick, everybody, gather round!"

Before I knew what was happening a circle had formed around us. Slytherins, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and all were laughing along with Malfoy and his cronies. At first I didn't understand, but then I remembered – most of these people thought Hagrid had opened the Chamber of Secrets the previous year, resulting in Moaning Myrtle's death. They thought him a murderer.

"Aren't they just the perfect pair!" screeched Walburga Black. "The murdering monster and his vampire bride!"

I rolled my eyes and moved towards the circle's edge, bed being the only thing on my mind. As was their nature, the crowd parted like a huge shoal of fish. But Hagrid was still stranded in the middle. His face was redder than a tomato and tears were beginning to sparkle in his eyes. These names, unfounded accusations, cut him deep. It went against every fibre in his body to harm another living creature.

How could they be so cruel?

"Shut up!" I yelled, glaring at everyone. "Shut up! Can't you see you're hurting him?"

"_He_ hurt _us_ first!" piped up a snobbish Ravenclaw.

I let out a howl of laughter. "For someone who's supposed to be clever you're pretty bloody stupid. Why don't you just open your eyes for one second and see who was really behind those attacks! It wasn't Hagrid, and if you used your so-called intelligence you would be able to see that!"

"I know you gypsies are of sub-standard in intelligence," drawled Slevin Lestrange lazily, "but please do pipe down. You're embarrassing us."

"Again," added Walburga.

"The only people you're embarrassing are yourselves," I spat back. "All of you! I might be a gyspy of sub-standard intelligence, but at least I'm not thick enough to believe that the Heir of Slytherin was in Gryffindor – Unlike _some_ people!"

Regan was suddenly at the fore of the crowd. She was radiant, as usual, her golden hair glowing precious in the torchlight. Her voice was icy. "Leave now. Our quarrel is not vith you, but vith the half-breed. You've said quite enough, Gypsy, if you ask me." A great cheer went up. I was drowning, drowning in noise, until–

"But nobody did ask you, did they, Regan?"

The crowd leapt aside in their willingness to let him through and we stood together, Hagrid, Riddle and I, in the middle. The centre of attention. "Go now," he ordered Hagrid. "And watch yourself. Boy." His voice, though so quiet, was somehow louder than all of Walburga's screams. No one dared argue. Hagrid left, pushing through the crowd and blundering down the steps into the night. I wanted to run after him.

But Riddle was in my way.

He was not close, blocking me not with his body but with his gaze. Ice blue diamonds. I could feel the chill creeping up my bones as our eyes met. I was determined to hold his. Show him what I was really made of.

"I'm sure you all have common rooms to go to," Riddle called softly. Though he addressed the crowd, his eyes never left mine, not once. Ice blue daggers digging into my soul. I could feel the arctic grip of his mind on mine, just as he had done for a second the day I cut him. But this time I was ready. Hours of practise with Harry had left me with almost impenetrable shields. With ease, I threw them up and deflected Riddle's onslaught like a mirror does a sunbeam. Shocked though he must have been, his face betrayed nothing. He continued speaking in that soft, velvet voice. Velvet because when you rubbed it the right way it was perfect; velvet because when you rubbed it the wrong way… "And I suggest you go there now. There's nothing to see here."

And just like that, the crowd dispersed. People left in little groups, muttering, until Riddle and I stood in the Entrance Hall, all alone. Regan was the last to go. Her eyes trapped mine and in them I saw pain.

I turned to leave.

"A simple thank you would suffice," Riddle said smoothly, his words a lasso, dragging me back.

I rounded on him, demanding, "For what, excuse me?"

"For sparing your oversized friend from a bloodthirsty lynch mob."

Hate curled my hands into talons and my mouth into a lopsided sneer. Drawing myself up to my full height I stared Riddle right in the eye, dignified to the last. And then I spat in his face.

"You're as bad as they are."

I turned on my heel and stalked away.

Alphard and Juliet were waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase to the dungeons. Alphard looked anxious. He kept glancing from me to Juliet, so much so that I didn't know which one of us he was more worried about. Personally, I felt I deserved the greater concern, seeing as I had just spat in the face of Slytherin's Heir and thus was marked down for certain death. Juliet, on the other hand, looked like Christmas, her birthday and her coronation as Supreme Ruler of the Universe were all scheduled for tomorrow. I had never seen a girl look so happy.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

(_Tom_)

Once again I watched her run from me. Warm spittle dribbled down my cheek. I let it run.

"Tom?" I whipped about at the sound of my name. Professor Slughorn came jogging out of the Great Hall. "Great Scott! Whatever happened here, my boy? I heard shouting. Is that …spit on your face?"

"Yes," I replied, wiping it off on my cuff. "The gamekeeper spat at me when I told him to leave the castle. Quite a few people were disturbed by his presence, especially after last year. I was afraid things might get ugly." I did not call him sir.

Slughorn nodded. "Yes, yes. Well done, Tom. Five points to Slytherin."

"Thank you. Sir."

We went our separate ways, Slughorn returning to his dinner, while I slipped out the open doors into the night. My mind was boiling over. So many questions, each without an answer, each pertaining to the Gypsy. My Gypsy. I had sincerely doubted the rumours plaguing the school, about how her family were pure evil. There was nothing evil or superior about her.

She was like a daisy. Pretty, very pretty, but doomed.

I conjured a stone out of thin air and flung it across the lake. It was swallowed up by the black water without a sound. Under my gaze the ripples turned to ice.

It was ludicrous to think that her magic was advanced to all others, even mine – her attack on me that day had simply been an explosion of pent-up magic evoked by pure emotion. It was uncontrolled, raw and weak. Truly beginner's magic, not a feat of wandless sorcery.

But tonight …

Tonight she consciously and purposely blocked my entrance to her mind. This is was no fluke, no freak outburst. Only a skilled and practised Occulumens could do such a thing. It required craft and discipline and power to delve into another's mind without losing yourself; even more so to guard your mind from others. Not the kind of thing wandering peddlers taught their brats.

And yet my Gypsy knew this.

So many things she knew.

So many things she knew about me.

I knew it was not safe. I had to gain control over her, curb her loose tongue before she caused any real damage. But how? Legilimency had been my plan. Almost indefensible, I had been so sure of my success. I would break inside her mind, break her mind, and all she knew I would know, and all she was would be mine. I would posses her, internally and externally.

Now it was useless. But I could not give in. There was too much at stake. If she knew about my parentage, about the Chamber, then what else did she know? Was there no end to her intensive, almost carnal, knowledge of me? Of my past?

Did she know about Gaunt's ring? About what is was? What it truly was.

Absently I fingered the jewel. It was heavy and I grew wearisome of wearing it, day in, day out. I supposed I could give it to Regan, tell her it was a gift. She would guard it with her life. She would not ask questions. She would do what I told her to and nothing more. There was no end to what that girl would do for me, and for nothing in return; though why, I had no idea.

That was how I needed my Gypsy to be. Ready. Pliable. Usable. Disposable.

Just like every other girl.

But I couldn't help to wonder, that, if she were like every other girl, would she cease to be mine?

In the distance I saw lights glowing the windows of savage's hut. My Gypsy liked him. Spent time with him. Defended him. He was only a savage; a fool, wild and uncouth. How could he compare with someone of my intelligence or looks? Yet it was me she ran from, like _I_ was the monster. What was it about me that repulsed her, repelled her? Why did she persist to resist? Why would she not give in to me? Was it my past that haunted her … Or my future …

I always counted Divination as a fatuous endeavour, but if my Gypsy could tell me what I was to become, of my greatness, my power, that one day every Witch and Wizard would fear to speak my name. Had she seen? I had to know.

I struck out in frustration, anger. Rime smothered the grass about my feet. I stamped down hard and it shattered, a million tiny daggers of ice. Crouching down I seized a fistful. I felt nothing. No biting cold, no stinging needles. I opened my hand and the ice drifted back to the ground. I kicked it away. I had ice when I wanted fire. I had cold when I wanted heat. I had nothing when I wanted her.

Wanted?

Needed.

I abandoned the grounds. The night air had answered none of my questions. Burning, I trod the familiar dungeon passages, past Slughorn's office, past his private store cupboard with its welcoming lock, past the potion's classroom. As always, the door was ajar. Fumes leaked out through the cracks. I frowned. How could the fools be so careless? What if some meddlesome Gryffindor prefect came sniffing about and witnessed our illicit little business venture?

I kicked open the door.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Amidst the steaming cauldrons Borgin and Travers froze. Although decidedly more adept a brewing up some second-grade poison than Malfoy, they lacked his knack of greasing which hinges require grease and how much; though they were all in the same boat when it came to common sense, or, more accurately, a lack thereof. Generally when one is doing something one oughtn't to be, one does it in secret.

"Of what, My Lord?" stammered Borgin.

"Fumes." I pointed at the mist swirling about my feet. "Escaping through the open door. I don't think I need to tell you what would happen if someone, say _Dumbledore_, were to discover what was going on down here."

They shook their heads. "No, My Lord," they chorused. Disgusting sycophants. Slughorn turned a blind eye to our little enterprise so long as he was given a bite of the apple, but Dumbledore – any other teacher I might have been able to sway – would surely be the end of us.

I nodded. My eyes scoured the room. I recognised a basic beauty potion, a strengthening solution, a contraceptive draft and a half a dozen or so nameless poisons. There was nothing too onerous in the works tonight. I only trusted myself with those of the more delicate nature, all the deadliest poisons, the Veritaserums, Drafts of Living Death, Polyjuice Potions, Felix Felicis and Amortentias.

_Amortentia. _

One of the most powerful and dangerous potions in the world.

_Powerful infatuations can be induced by the skilful potioneer, but never yet has anyone managed to create the truly unbreakable, eternal, unconditional attachment that alone can be called Love,_

so said Hector Dagworth-Granger, but I had no need for love. All I needed was complete compliance. Subservience. Unyielding and unquestionable devotion.

If my Gypsy loved me, and only me, with all her mind, body and soul, then her mind, body and soul would be open books for me to peruse at my pleasure. As for her heart …

Shivers of excitement crackled up my spine. I could almost taste her.

"Leave."

Confused, and a little fearful, Borgin protested, "But My Lord? The potions? They're not finished."

"Are you suggesting me incapable of completing a simple strengthening solution?" I snapped. "I said _leave_."

As the scuttled from my presence, a pair of beetles, I felt their fear. It crawled all over my skin like warm water. A lover's touch.

The irony brought a smile to my face.

Ignoring the shimmering cauldrons, I strode straight to Slughorn's desk. _Advanced Potion-Making _lay open atop a pile of uncorrected essays. My fingers trembled as I flicked though the pages, searching for the hallowed recipe. I read the instructions ten times over. For such a complicated potion, the ingredients were quite simple. Only one obstacle lay in my path. As with the Polyjuice Potion, Amortenia required a little bit of loved … and a little bit of the lover. Once these essential ingredients were added, the potion needed only to be brought to the boil, and then … and then it was complete. And then, my Gypsy would truly, madly, deeply, be mine.

_Mine._

It took me less than three hours to bring the potion to the point where the essence where required.

My hands were quite steady as I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of the knife. I dug the blade into the flesh of my fingertip. I pressed the edges of the puncture together and blood welled up, ruby red. I turned my hand upside down over the cauldron. It seemed to take an age to fall, the single blood drop. It hit the surface and infected the surface of the potion, ripple by ripple, wave by wave, until all was pearly red.

The point of no return.

I cleaned the knife, turned down the flame and left the potions classroom, locking the door behind me. The common room was completely empty when I entered. Ashwinders sung to me from the dying embers but I ignored them. As I slunk down the dormitory corridor I placed myself under a Disillusionment charm. Non-verbal, wandless. I'd like to see my Gypsy compete with that.

Even in the pitch-blackness I knew which door was hers. I could smell her hands on it. Forgetting to breathe, I waited, listening with all my might – any sound of stirring and I would be force to subdue them both, her and the Montague girl. But I heard nothing.

The door swung smoothly inwards, pushed by the power of my mind. My feet made no sound on the carpeted floor. Heavy breathing and sleep hung thick in the air. I checked on Montague first, peering though the green drapes. Her face was slack with sleep. I ghosted away across the room.

I caressed the hangings round her bed. Just velvet stood in my way now. With my gypsy by my side I would be unstoppable. Not Dumbledore, not Grindelwald, not Death would dare stand in my way. I would have fire, and I would have ice, and I would have destruction.

I ripped open the hangings.

She lay there, a little doll, lost among the silken sheets. Sheets that paled in comparison to the softness of her skin. My eyes drank her in. Her hair, fanning about her, white in the moonlight. An angel. My angel. Her face. Her eyes, fluttering, lashes invisible against her pale cheeks. Freckles, tiny freckles, like specks of dust, of exotics spices; cinnamon and nutmeg and rust. Her lips.

I reached out to touch her, but I could not. My hand hovered by her cheek like a dying dove. Next to my ashen skin, her flesh seemed rosy and young. She stirred in her sleep, screwing up her eyes, turning her head. And then she sighed, a butterfly of sound, fluttering upwards and dissolving.

I caught up a lock of her hair. Lowering my face, I closed my eyes and breathed it in. It smelt of myrrh and vanilla. It stank of magic.

I twisted it about my fingers, flaxen ropes around an icicle, and I raised my knife.

Her pulse thudded in her throat.

The knife shook in my hand. One little flick and it would all be over. Any secrets she held would die with her. My past I was willing to let go of, but my future …

Our future.

The blade sliced through the strands like fire through ice. I let go and golden threads floated back to earth. I would gather them up, add them to the potion, and, like, always, what I could not have, I would steal. I would steal her love. Steal it, and locked it up in a little bottle, calling on it every now and then. I wondered what love looked like.

Except the golden threads weren't golden any more. They were red.

I snatched at them, tiny rivers of blood criss-crossing my hands. I had to have them all. Desperate to keep them together, I twisted them into a braid. The effect made me stare. Her hair seemed to glow, illuminating my flesh. Like blood. Like fire. I wound the braid around my wrist, whispering a charm. The stench of burning hair filled the room as I fused the ends together, entrapping my wrist just as she had entrapped me. Just as I would entrap her.

My fingers played with the braid, running over and over it, an eternal circle of fire. So she was a red head. Fiery hair to match her fiery temperament. Now that I knew I could never imagine myself not knowing.

I wondered if she knew that Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman ever to live, the face that launched one thousand ships, had red hair. That Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, had red hair. That great rulers, such as Queen Elizabeth and Boudica and Catherine the Great all had red hair. So did Judas Iscariot. And did she know that in the Middle-Ages people believe red hair and green eyes to be the signs of a witch, and the Devil used to go searching for souls in the form of a beautiful young gypsy woman with fire red hair.

She moaned. Her eyes screwed shut and she tossed her head. Her little hands scrambled at the sheets and under the blankets her legs kicked out. She was dreaming.

What I did next will always remain a mystery to me.

I laid my hand on her forehead. It almost burned me, such was the fire of her nightmare. "_Shhhh,_" I hissed. I was down on my knees beside her bed. "_Shhhhh. Sleep._"

She struggled and cried, yet I stroked her hair still. Her forehead, her cheeks, her hand. Each brush of my hand sent embers dancing up my arm, each time our flesh met electricity sparked. Like a parasite I feed off her warmth, drinking it up greedily, consuming. In its place was only cold. But then, miraculously, the glow returned. And she was warm again. And I, I was still cold.

"_Shhhh_," I breathed.

And her eyes flickered open.

* * *

Owwww. You can say it. I'm soooooo evil. Another lovely cliffie for you, my lovelies.

Now, I REALLY want to hear what people thought of this chapter because I'm not sure about it. Was Tom sinister enough? Obsessed enough? Does anyone have any suggestions on how to make things better? 60 people have this story on their Alerts and 41 have it listed as a favourite, but are 60 people reviewing? No. Are 41 people reviewing? Again, no. I know I'm just sounding like a spoiled little whiny brat here, but I really, really _really _want to know what people think. I want this, forgive me for my arrogance, to be one of the BEST TomXGinny fics EVER. And to do that, I need your help.

If anyone likes Sirius Black fics, check out _This Means War_ by IsForWinners. A great bit of harmless snarky fun. If anyone is an X-Men fan and likes Kyros, please, visit mine and aiRo25writes' forum _Save The Kyro_ and, um, well, save the Kyro. They're a dying breed and it's so sad.

Cheers, Plonksie


	10. Chapter Ten

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER NINE:_

As is the new tradition, I replied to all signed reviews personally. But, just because I love you all SO much, here's another shout to my peeps. My bitches. **chini**, **BEN-Beyond the Elusive Nomads-**, **Daughter of the Black**, **-EHWIES**, **LostAndAwaiting**, **deeps85**, **Moogle from Cyrodiil **(er, forgive my ignorance, but what is a Moogle from Cyrodiil, exactly?), **Wallis K.**, **marie0920**, **moony391**, **Lummylicious**, **Inkgod**, **pbk**, **LarkaSpirit**, **xXKiri-ChanXx**, **-somecrazykid-**, **TwilightGirl100195 **(oh, come on? Wouldn't you rather be Harry Potter's girl? ... Okay, yeah, I wouldn't really like that either. But what about Tom Riddle's? Or Sirius Black's? Huh? Huh? Who could deny that? - Don't worry, I'm only playing with you), **LadyEmme**, **SlytherinPrinzessin**, **SapphireStar9**, **cullenchick-25x** (ditto what I said to TwilightGirl100195. Come over to the Dark Side, my dear. We have peanut butter), **Miranda C.**, **destinysings**, **Casimir Paulaski Day**, **Team Guy of Gisbourne **(Team ROBIN! *Waves 'We Luv Rob' banner furiously while trying not to salivate over picture of Richard Armitage* Don't you just hate it when the bad guy's hotter than the good guy, even if the good guy is pretty fine? How are you supposed to root for the hero? It's highly inconsiderate of the BBC, me thinks. Damn Brits), **Lexi Lou 9012**, **indigo8795**, **Kitty Dazzleside**, **crazyelf22**, **DoubleCaramel**, **DawnFire and Silver Huntress**.

_And the unsigned reviews:_

**Natasha** - LOL. I know the feeling. I find once I find a good story, I have to keep reading until I'm up to date. Time becomes irrelevant. That's the power of fiction, I guess. Well, I'm sorry you missed out on your sleep, but I'm glad you found my fic. Welcome to the family *said with as much Adams Family cheer as is (un)humanely possible*

**Isabella Marie Cullen** - aww shucks, lady. You're too kind

**xoulblade** - and I love you for loving my story! Love is all around! … I feel it in my fingers, I feel in my toes …

**kristinsk** - oh, stop it! You're making me blush. I never thought of it in the Newton's Third Law way before; I just wanted to tell the story from different points of view to stop it getting boring! Your way sounds so much more professional. I think I shall claim it from now on. I shall

**Jools** - the name's Fantastic, Mr. Fantastic. LOL. Is it just me, or are the Fantastic Four the lamest Superhereos ever? The X-Men would kick their spandexed asses any day. Oh yeah! … Now there's a thought for a movie. Instead of Celebrity Death Wrestling, we could have Superhero Death Wrestling … Sorry, I'm type-thinking! Thanks for the review, you're the best

**some1** - me? A sick twist? Never! My twists are all perfectly healthy, thank you very much!

**Shelby** - sorry, this isn't tomorrow (life got in the way!), but here it is now. As Apu would say: thank you, come again.

**jcasey90** - sorry! Don't shoot! I know exactly how you feel: you read all night and the bastard ends on some awful cliffhanger. Which is why I do it in return. Give them a taste of their own medicine. Sorry you got caught in the crossfire of my pyschological warfare, old chum, but here's a nice update, just for you.

**aragornsgirll **- really? You mean it? Because you can't take it back now. You can't. You said it and I have proof! Seriously, that meant a lot. Thank you, thank you so much.

**Trova** - gypsy's just his little nickname for her because she said her parents were travellers (Irish gypsies) and she hasn't said anything to make him think that this is anything but the truth. Yet. Glad you're enjoying it

Phew, long list. You guys, you're beyond words. I have never had so many reviews, EVER. You have no idea how happy and honoured I was to receive so much of your praise. There is nothing like the feeling a writer gets when over thirty people bother to send her a little message saying her little story meant something to them. I love you all. You all.

Now please do it again. Pretty please with a Riddle on top …

* * *

Beta'd by **pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**

**Fire & Ice**

Chapter Ten

_  
__In sleep he sang to me  
In dreams he came  
That voice which calls to me  
And speaks my name  
And do I dream again?  
For now I find  
The phantom of the opera is there,  
Inside my mind _  
'Phantom of the Opera' – from the musical, _The Phantom of the Opera_

.

(Ginny)

I had the strangest dream last night. First, I dreamt I was watching my son sleep in his cot. He slept so soundly, his tiny chest rising and falling, pure evidence of life, and his tiny feet kicked and his tiny fingers opened and closed, opened and closed. I lowered my hand into the cot and he gripped my pinky finger. A smile spread across my face, and, unable to resist any longer, I scooped him up into my arms and held him tight. He smelt of chamomile soap and hot milk and love, and I buried my face in his dark hair, wanting to stay there forever. With his head against my shoulder, I swayed around the room, singing softly the songs my mother had once sung to me,

_Hush little baby, don't say a word,  
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird  
And if that mockingbird don't sing,  
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring  
And if that diamond ring turns to brass,  
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass  
And if that looking glass gets broke,  
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat_

I held him apart from me so I could kiss his forehead, cheeks, eyes, nose. But as I kissed him, I realised there was something wrong. Something not right, not normal. I was confused. He smelt fine, he slept fine, he weighed in my arms what a baby should, his skin was as soft as pussywillows, yet as my lips touched his, I knew in my heart that my son was not as he should be. It frightened me.

_And if that billy goat won't pull,  
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull  
And if that cart and bull turn over,  
Papa's gonna buy you a dog called Rover  
And if that dog called Rover won't bark,  
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart  
And if that horse and cart fall down,  
You'll still be the sweetest baby in town._

He stirred. His hands flapped about my face, fingers so small, so cold, touching, feeling, caressing. I laughed, a rich, carefree laugh and he laughed too, and threw his arms around my neck. He opened his beautiful eyes. And suddenly I knew what was wrong.

No son of mine would ever have blue eyes.

I let go of the monster, but its arms, so strong, anchored itself to my neck, and it opened its mouth, revealing a jaw full of razor teeth. The teeth glared silver in the light of given off by the fireplace in the grate of the old decaying shack we stood in. I screamed, screamed, but I made no sound as the creature sunk his teeth deep into my throat. Arctic lips hit warm skin and hot blood geysered upwards. Through different eyes, I watched myself crumple to the floor, felt my strength melt away like a snowflake in the dawn, and above me, the monster took the form of an sixteen-year-old boy, hair as dark as a raven feather, skin as white as the first snow and lips as red as a red, red rose, red with my blood. Except he wasn't a boy at all, he was a scarecrow, with blue diamonds for eyes, and my blood dripped from the sack, tumbling through the air, and fell into my eyes. It burned like fire and I was screaming as I had never screamed before, hot and cold, fire and ice thudding through my veins, and I woke up.

And Harry was there.

"_Shhh_," breathed Harry. "_Shhh._"

I lay back. A feeling of absolute and uncompromising safety washed over me like a hot bath.

His fingers, a ghost of a touch, brushed my hair back from my face. His hand cold on my burning cheek.

"I love you."

"Harry," I murmured. I covered his hand in mine, pressing it to my face. "Harry."

And at the sound of his name, as if I'd broken some secret spell, his hand was pulled from mine and he was gone.

Gone.

I fell back asleep instantly and when I woke up in the morning he was gone. But I knew in my heart that he been here, and not just as a ghost, but something more, something substantial. He had touched my face, his cold hand soothing my hot cheek. He had told me that he loved me. I had not seen his face through the gloom, but I knew it had been Harry. It had to be. His hand was so cold, so cold it could only mean death. He had come from beyond the veil to tell me something, something important. That I was on the right track, perhaps? That I was even succeeding? Or, maybe, that I was in grave danger. Merlin knew I had my enemies, and plenty of them. But whatever the reason for his appearance, it bolstered me, and I lay in bed, burning with fresh fire and life and determination for my quest. I could do this. I knew that now, and Harry had given me the strength, shown me the way – even if I could not see it yet. I knew, every step I took, he would be there to guide me.

Yet, I felt guilt too, a deep, gnawing throb right inside my very core. Guilt, for not mourning Harry's passing with the respect he deserved. I had loved him, right until the end, but I had just forgotten him, so absorbed in my new task. I was sure he, of all people, would understand, that he wouldn't want me to spend my days in mourning, wearing only black, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had somehow deserted him.

I rolled over and stared blankly at the hangings.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the velvet. "I didn't mean to forget. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. But you will be if you don't get out of bed right now."

I groaned. Morning was such an inconsiderate time of day.

"Coming, Juliet," I droned, pulling back the hangings and kicking my legs out of bed. I raised a hand to my cheek where he had touched me. I don't what I looking for – a sign, maybe, some sort of mark to prove that I had not been dreaming, though I was certain I wasn't. It had felt so real.

Already dressed, Juliet raised an eyebrow at my actions. She sat opposite me on her bed, perfecting her hair by curling the ends around her wand. When I didn't drop my hand, she rolled her eyes and checked her reflection in her bedside mirror. Then her eyes snapped back to me and she swept to her feet. Hawk-like, she peered at me across the room. "Say, what's that? That, there, on your shoulder?"

"What?" I asked, unnerved, tentatively patting my shoulder, expecting to come into contact with a flesh-eating slug or something equally ghastly. "Where? What?"

Juliet hurried over to me and, reaching out, snared a long hair off my nightgown. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger and it danced like a candle in the wind. A candle, I say, because it was as red as the setting sun.

And, just like a candle in the wind, all the good feelings I had woken with were snuffed out. Extinguished. Gone.

Juliet stared at the single hair. "Where in Merlin's name did this come from?" she breathed, her eyes roving up and down the ruby strand.

"I have absolutely no idea," I denied lightly, my brain jamming into overload. I knew exactly where the hair had come from. My head. "I could have picked it up anywhere. Probably bumped against someone last night."

"I don't think so. You weren't wearing your nightgown in the Great Hall," Juliet muttered shrewdly, more to herself than to me. "No, it couldn't be that."

I figured it had probably come loose while I tossed and turned last night, but, so far as Juliet knew, my hair was blonde and this strand was red. "Here, don't worry about it. It's not a big deal." I snatched for it, intent on throwing it away, burning it – but Juliet whipped it away.

"On the contrary, I think it a very big deal. How did you come in contact with such a persistent hair?"

"I already said I don't know," I replied shortly, leaving her to examine the hair and moving off to get dressed.

Juliet looked affronted. "There's no need to get snappy. I'm only trying to help."

"And I'm saying don't bother." I sighed, and tried for politeness. "What I mean is, I really appreciate it that you want to help me and find out whose hair this is, but it doesn't bother me at all and I'd hate to think you're wasting your time, so just forget about it. Please."

"If you wish." Juliet wrinkled her nose and dropped the hair. It floated downwards, an autumn leaf in a waterfall of air. She picked up her wand to finish curling her hair, but stopped again, wand halfway to her ear. "By any chance," she began in a hushed tone, her eyes slightly narrowed, "did you see anyone in here last night?"

I blushed and quickly buried my head in my wardrobe.

I fought to keep my voice steady. "That's an odd question. Why would you ask that?" If Juliet had seen Harry too, or heard him, than that was concrete proof I had not imagined him, that my brain hadn't conjured up a ghost to appease me.

"Because I thought I heard the door creak last night."

I sighed, disappointed. I had been hoping for something more dramatic than a door creaking. "Doors creak all the time, Juliet."

"Not like this. This was a door opening and closing. I'm sure of it." And she went on, pacing up and down the worn carpet between our beds, her voice getting stronger with each turn. "I dismissed it as a dream until I saw this hair. Someone was here last night. They left this here. I know it!"

There was something in her conviction that unsettled me. Triumph and zealousness gleaming in her eyes, I could almost see her brain at work, whirring away.

"And so what if someone was here? From what I've heard, night-time visitors aren't exactly a rare occurrence around here," I added sardonically, buttoning up my shirt.

Juliet sent me a withering look. "The only redhead I know is Fenian, but it can't possibly have been him. It's far too long, for a start. And it's the wrong colour red." She scanned the floor for the abandoned hair. "I've never been partial to red hair myself."

I bristled. "What's the problem with red hair?"

"Oh, come now, Ginevra. It's so common. Everyone knows all the Weasleys have red hair." She said the name Weasley like it was a smear of dragon dung on her best pumps.

Once again I fought to keep my voice steady, though not from fear, but anger. "And you're willing to judge a person based on their hair colour and surname?" How dare she insult my family? Though I no longer went by the name of Weasley, I felt as much a part of the family as ever, especially now. Nothing like a crisis to bring people together.

Juliet looked at me like I was being stupid on purpose. "What else is there to judge by?"

"How about personality? Qualities like friendship and bravery and generosity and kindness?"

"Oh, please! You sound like Gryffindor. And justice for all!" she cried out, standing up on her chair to address the invisible crowd, blowing them kisses. She dissolved into laughter at her own actions, her mockery something to behold.

"And I suppose that's a bad thing?"

Juliet's smile cracked. "A bad thing? A bad thing?" She advanced on me, finger directed at my heart. "I know you're new to life as a Slytherin, MacKenna," she hissed. "But there are a few qualities we honour too, such as intelligence, ambition and social awareness. You have a place in this society and it is your duty to uphold that station for the prosperity and dignity of your fellows and your superiors. Discretion, diplomacy, determination; if you want something dear enough, by Merlin, you fight for it until have it; and if someone takes something from you, you do not rest until they have paid double for their crime … But what would you know of intelligence, Irish muck savage that you are." She looked down on me, pity in her eyes. "Honour is a commodity above such a person as you," she finished with a triumphant gleam in her cold eyes, a glow in her cheeks. She was roaring for a fight, I could tell. There was wind in her sails and her chin was held high. I had been in this situation many a time before, especially with Ron, so I knew exactly now to act to diffuse the situation before it escalated into full-on warfare. As much as I longed to hit her square in the face with a good hex, I knew I needed her as a friend. Or, at least, not as an enemy.

Coolly, I raised a single eyebrow. "Hark? A Slytherin, coaching me on how to be honourable? There's so much irony here I could write a poem."

"A poem? I love poems! Roses are red, violets are blue, Alphard wants his breakfast and so should you! It's almost eight o'clock. Come come come, ladies, your escort awaits," Alphard called to us from the door. He stooped to check his reflection in the doorknob, smoothing down his eyebrows and, with pursed lips, adjusted the neat little scarf wound tight around his throat. "What do you think, blondie?" he asked over his shoulder, beckoning me over. "Should I tie it like this? … Or like this? We have Transfiguration today and I will not be out-dressed by Dumbledore again. Did you see the robes he had last class? Such colours. Where that man shops, I do not know. Paris, maybe? Or Milan. The Italians know where they're at. Effortless class, really, but with that rumpled edge. You know? Rumpled?" And he mussed his hair.

"Nice," I complimented. "Rumpled."

"Why thank you, kind sir. I'm thinking more Milan. The Parisians, they're so cold. So much black. And we all know khaki's the new black, with this ridiculous war the Muggles are playing at. I honestly don't why we they feel an urge to go and kill each other every twenty years or so. It's a little stupid, don't you think, blondie?"

"Very stupid," I agreed. And I flashed Juliet a smile. "In fact, almost as stupid as someone who thinks they know all there is about a person without even learning their whole name. I hope you'll excuse me, Juliet. Apparently, my escort awaits." I took Alphard by the arm and lead him from the room, hissing, "play along."

"A game? Oh, oh, I love games!"

"Yes," I murmured. "A game."

Alphard's smile vanished like the sun behind a big black rain cloud. "Oh," he said with ominous gravitas. "So it's one of those games. Can't say I'm a fan of them, now you speak of it." He looked over his shoulder back down the corridor to see if Juliet was following. "Now, Quidditch, there's a game. Nothing can top a good Quidditch match. Just wait until the season starts, blondie. Those trousers are tight."

"Do we have a good team?" I asked, interested. Quidditch, like so many other aspects of my former life at Hogwarts, had been completely absent from my new one. The fact that the Quidditch season was approaching hadn't even entered my mind. I supposed it was because I wasn't training, out in the torrential rain and gale force winds with Harry's shouts ringing in my ears. But, somehow, Quidditch didn't seem as inviting as it once had. There was something missing. "I hope so."

For the second time in five minutes, someone looked at me like I was purposely acting the fool.

"A good team? A good team? T.I.S., blondie."

I was confused as to whether I had mortally insulted him or grossly over-estimated the capabilities of the team. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"Let me put it more simply for you, my Irish friend. Abraxas Malfoy is our captain. What kind of team do you think we have?"

"A team that wears tight trousers?" I guessed, still confused.

"Oh, blondie. You are a riot."

"I try."

"What's first class?" Alphard pondered aloud as we crossed the common room, stepping over some Fourth Year's snoring body.

I thought about it for a moment. "DADA, I think."

"You know, Merrythought is retiring," he commented.

"No," I gasped, shocked. Professor Merrythought was one of my favourite teachers; a little old, a little deaf, but she certainly knew her stuff. "No. I didn't. How did you find out?"

"Riddle," Alphard answered promptly. "Told me last night." To this I had two questions. Why do you talk to him? and How did he find out? I only asked the latter. Alphard shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea where he got it, to tell the truth."

"Then how do you know it's true?"

"Because Riddle isn't the kind of person who just makes things like this up for his amusement."

"He's got better ways of amusing himself," I muttered darkly.

"And Regan doesn't enter into it," Alphard finished.

"W-what?" I fumbled, caught off-guard by his words. They sharpened me. How would Alphard know of Riddle's illicit behaviour, that he had already killed his parents, framed his uncle and set a centuries-old Basilisk loose on the school at large? Judging by the reaction of most people last night, when I had defended Hagrid, no one suspected anyone but him to be the culprit. "What are you talking about?"

Alphard opened his mouth to reply when–

"Alphard! Wait!"

We spun around to see Juliet advancing towards us in some sort of jerky skip. Walking wasn't fast enough, but she was too dignified to run. Her eyes on us, she wasn't watching where she was going, and her foot snagged the sleeping Fourth Year on the arm. She pin-wheeled forward, her dignity evaporating as I watched – then, out of nowhere, Alphard caught her. It was a clumsy manoeuvre, in which he upturned a table, snatched at her wrist, and the pair of them hovered erect for a moment before their combined weight caused Alphard to topple backwards onto a chair. Somehow, they landed in tandem, Alphard on the chair, Juliet on his lap, their faces inches apart.

Juliet giggled. "You saved me. My knight in shining armour." And she kissed his cheek.

I had never heard Juliet giggle before, really giggle, like the schoolgirl she was, but here she was, doing it now, in the arms of her fellow outcast.

I expected all manners of replies from Alphard. Words had never failed him before and an image such as a knight in shining armour was the kind of thing he lived for. But he said nothing, only gazed at his fair damsel, mouth slightly open.

Juliet blinked, confused.

After what seemed an age, Alphard cleared his throat. "Breakfast," he muttered with uncharacteristic gruffness, and half-pushed, half-helped Juliet to her feet. "C'mon. I'm starving."

"Food. It's all you males think about," Juliet complained, her scowl back in place, more pronounced than ever. "Well, go ahead then! And take your precious _blondie_ with you!" And she gave me a little shove forward into Alphard's arm. But Alphard didn't catch me and I bounced off him.

"It's not like that," he said and left. Just like that.

I stood, stranded, between the two. My heart screamed at me to go after Alphard, to see what was wrong, what had brought about the sudden change in him. But my brain said no; it said there was something else going on here, something I wasn't aware of. Left to pick up the pieces, I struck out to Juliet. "Breakfast?"

"So I can watch you two disgrace me further? I don't think so."

That was what she did say, but it wasn't what she wanted to. She worked very hard to arrange her face into one of pure hatred, but her eyes betrayed her. And the emotion running through them was betrayal. She thought I had betrayed her. Not Slytherin, but her, personally. But how? I didn't understand. What could I possibly have done?

"Juliet?"

"It's Miss Montague to you, Gypsy," she hissed, pushing past me and out of the common room.

Lost, I stood alone in the middle of the common room, without a home, without a friend, without a face to say hello to. People skirted around me on their way out. No one wanted to touch the Gypsy. I was the freak in the leper colony. I felt my new found strength ebb away, leave me like blood from a wound, with every face that passed. Without Alphard and Juliet by my side, I felt so alone, isolated, vulnerable. I needed them. If only I knew what I had done to wrong them, I could put it right.

Slowly, alone, I trudged to the entrance, when a voice called out from behind me,

"Ginny!"

It was Regan. As breathtaking as ever, she put on a spurt of speed and joined me by the wall. "Vhere are your friends?" she asked, looking around her, as if Alphard and Juliet were hiding behind the curtains, waiting to jump out and say boo.

I shrugged. "They left."

"Oh vell. Their loss is my gain." With a husky laugh, she closed her hand over my shoulder and steered me from the common room. Her nails dug into my flesh and I squirmed a little, trying to pull away, but she only clung on tighter. What did she want me? Last night she undermined me in front of the entire school and now she wanted to play happy families?

Did I just say undermined? I shook myself. I was beginning to think like a Slytherin.

Regan was still talking. "No matter. You can eat vith me. I feel I do not know you at all. Ve must spend more time together, Ginny. I know if ve did, ve could become such good friends."

Not trusting myself to speak, I let her lead me up through the dungeons and across the Entrance Hall into the Great Hall. I immediately looked for my friends, but both their places were empty. Regan followed my gaze. "Not very good friends, I am thinking, going off together and leaving you all alone, hmmm?"

"They are fine friends, thank you very much," I replied with forced politeness.

Regan just smiled.

We had reached her seat. My friend Fenian was feasting on bacon and eggs like they were going out of fashion, Malfoy had his head buried in the newspaper, Demetrius Zabini was feeding his sister strawberries and vice versa, the Blacks were exchanging spit, in Regan's absence Lestrange was making eyes at one of the faceless sluts sitting out on the periphery, Nott was scribbling away, as usual, while sipping from a mug of the blackest coffee I had ever seen, and Riddle sat in the middle of it all, lounging back on his chair and observing all with an amused look on his face, rather like a potioneer gazing fondly down at the scarab beetles he has nurtured from larvae and soon plans to crush. He seemed above it all, this feeding time at the zoo.

Regan tapped her spoon against her goblet to gain everybody's attention. "Today Ginevra vill be joining us for breakfast," she announced with a dazzling smile. "Sure I am you vill all make her feel most velcome."

It amazed me how she could make this sound like a threat, reminding me of my mother. I shoved the thought away quickly. I didn't ever want my mother, someone so good and kind, to be associated with a girl like Regan. I felt a little hypocritical, judging her so soon, especially after my outbreak with Juliet, but I generally have a good suss of people, and from Regan I got the distinct impression that she would never befriend anyone who didn't serve a purpose – witting or unwitting as they were. In her mind, friendship was a deal that worked both ways. You only get what you give.

Walburga surfaced from her cousin with the sound of a kitchen plunger being extracted, and gazed up a Regan, blinking in a rather stupid fashion. "But there isn't enough room for her to sit down."

"Walburga get up," drawled Riddle. With much confusion, Walburga did as she was told. "Now there's room."

Walburga opened her mouth to protest, as did Orion, but neither of them got so much as a single syllable out. Riddle raised his eyebrows a fraction and they were silent, mouthing like fish, as if under a Silencing Charm. Walburga turned and went to sit on the periphery. Orion did not even think about joining her – he didn't even think about it. Such was Slytherin loyalty. Riddle gave his hand a careless flick and the remnants of Walburga's breakfast vanished, leaving the plate sparkling.

He did all this without looking at me, not once, not for one tiny second. And for some reason this angered me. My mother taught me the common courtesy of always looking at the person I'm speaking to, no matter how much I loathed them. Riddle seemed to think himself above things as trivial as good manners. I tried to shove it aside, move on, but it refused to budge. He wasn't looking at me. Did I want him to? Did I want him look at me? Why? So I could look at him in return? Startlingly handsome as he was, all ivory skin, ebony hair and diamond eyes, I didn't think this was the reason. But then what was the reason?

While I puzzled this out, life around me went on as normal, the breakfasters just carrying on as if nothing had ever happened.

"Stop pretending to read the paper, Brax, and pass the pumpkin juice," called Orion.

Malfoy set down the paper and made a big show of pouring the last of the pumpkin juice into his already full goblet, so that it splashed down the sides and over the table. Mercedes Zabini wrinkled her nose in disgust as the liquid crept towards her. Demetrius waved his wand, but instead of drying up the juice, like any normal person would have done, he simply sent it flowing it a different direction, snaking down the table in an orange river towards Orion. It dripped down into his lap, staining his shirt orange, and the table rang with laughter. At my elbow, Regan was slicing up a lemon and fixing Riddle a drink. It looked like just lemon and boiling water. I shuddered, but on second thoughts, I considered it most fitting. He raised the cup to his lips and suddenly his eyes found mine. He paused, about to take a sip, and winked.

"Sit down or leave," Slevin Lestrange said loudly. "But don't just stand there looking like an idiot."

From his tone of voice it was clear what he wanted me to do. Naturally, I did the opposite. I sat down in Walburga's vacated place. No one said a word. There was no murmuring, no staring, no nothing. This was a public place, after all. Thirsty, I reached for the pumpkin juice only to remember it was all gone.

"Here."

I looked up. Riddle was holding a goblet.

"No thank you," I said with cold politeness enough make Auntie Muriel smile.

Riddle just smiled, so charming. "It's not poison. You can trust me."

I choked. "Trust you? When Hell freezes over."

"That can be arranged."

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied with a smile so forced it made my jaw ache. I was truly thirsty, but there was no way I was accepting the drink. This had moved beyond personal comfort; it was a battle of wills, a battle I would not loose. I had fought many such a battle before over the years with my brothers, and they invariably ended messily. A good mess, I thought with a savage grin, was something Riddle was badly in need of.

He mirrored my smile, inquiring, "I thought you were thirsty." He was the fishmonger, prying open the stubborn mussel to get at the soft meat inside. Somehow, he manage to make this sound like an accusation; like I had lied to him about being thirsty, that I was in the wrong – yet he forgave me for it, for my misdeed. I almost laughed out loud: him, forgiving me.

"Well, you thought wrong, didn't you?"

"There is a first time for everything," he conceded, nodding. There was no need for verbal sarcasm; his eyes said everything, sparkling away.

"Can I have that in writing?" I quipped.

"You can have anything you want."

His words, so soft, so pure, sent shivers down my spine. His smile had transcended into something wolfish but I could not break his gaze. Gingerly, I prodded my mental shields with light fingers. They were still intact. He had not tried to invade my mind – not yet, at any rate. Maybe he had learned his lesson last night? I didn't think so.

"Here's what I want: I don't want that drink."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Regan snapped, bursting into our little stand-off with a snarl. "Stop this. Give it here. I vill drink it." She snatched for the drink, somehow remaining dignified, but Riddle removed it from the reach of her burgundy fingertips.

When he addressed her it was with arctic bluntness. "This drink is for Miss McKenna. Stop acting like a spoilt little brat, and, for once, get your own."

Regan balked. She looked as if someone had just slapped her about the face with a wet fish. She was speechless and I could understand why. I was willing to bet that no one, no one, had ever spoken to her like this before. And it wasn't what he said, it was the way he said it. Like she meant nothing to him. It was cruelty. Pure cruelty. As to where it came from, I was as lost as Regan. When Fenian told me that they regularly slept together, I was a little shocked because I thought Regan and Slevin were a couple, but the more I thought about it, the harder I kicked myself for not figuring it out myself. How could anyone not suspect it, they way they acted in the back of Arithmancy? But this? What was this?

I have a vague memory of Regan once telling Riddle to stop, that things were getting ugly. Well, this morning ugly had been abandoned on the wayside many miles before. This was nothing short of deformed. As much as I distrusted Regan, downright disliked her, I couldn't stand for this. I could not sit back and watch her slowly burn up under Riddle's fire.

Make that ice. Fire required warmth, something which Riddle lacked, in all forms. He was as cold and hard as his diamond eyes.

"Give it to me," I muttered, holding my hand out for the goblet. "Give me the bloody drink. Yes, I admit it, I am thirsty. You win. Just give it to me."

Ugly wasn't the only thing abandoned on the wayside. As Riddle released Regan from his gaze, turning to hand me the hallowed goblet, she seemed to deflate. As they parted, something cracked, like ice. And Riddle, he could not have cared in the slightest.

I was careful not to touch his hand when I took the goblet.

"I knew you would see it my way," he murmured, smiling benignly.

"I will never see anything your way, Riddle," I vowed, wishing I could seal these words with blood. "And that's a promise."

Riddle just smiled. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Rolling my eyes, I raised the goblet to my lips.

* * *

Another cliffie. Sorry. My bad. I know nothing much happened in this chapter (or did it?), but I promise some action next time round. Cross my heart, swear to die.

The lyrics of _Hush Little Baby_ don't belong to me, folks. Shocking, I know, isn't it?

Please, please, PLEASE **review**. You have no idea how happy I was with the response from last chapter. I was practically dancing. I have never gotten so many reviews IN MY LIFE. You guys are amazing, more than amazing, amazing doesn't do you justice at all. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

Cheers, Plonksie

ps: a cookie to everyone who can spot the _Finding Nemo_ reference


	11. Chapter Eleven

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER TEN:_

A BIG SHOUT-OUT TO ALL MY REVIEWERS. CHRIST ON A BIKE, I LOVE YOU GUYS. **LOVE** YOU!

Everyone who posted a signed review, I got back to you personally, but here's an honorary mention because you all rock my socks off: **moviefan-92**, **ADarkGinny**,** slytherinchick13**,** MissMusa**,** cleo the hedgehog**,** Michelle Black a.k.a. Elle**,** Aledda**,** thngsunvrmention**,** BroodyAngel**,** ayaka1018**,** GoldenTresses91**,** diggydawg**,** NovemberDreamer**,** Avalonfreak**,** kerofish1**,** xxthethieflordxx**,** A Slytherin in Ravenclaw disguise **(how very crafty of you!), **xXKiri-chanXx**,** VenomousSilver**,** darkangel8694**,** Claerwen**,** the-quiet-girl**,** liltrick89**,** moony391**,** Inkgod**,** destinysings**,** muddy worm**,** iReenzel**,** deeps85**,** Lummylicious**,** TwilightGirl100195 **(I've probably said this before, but wouldn't you rather pay groupie to a REAL band? Hmmm? LOL), **Moogle from Cyrodiil**,** LadyEmme**,** xMusicGurlx**,** natalie211**,** -EHWIES**,** crazyelf22**,** LarkaSpirit**,** LostAndAwaiting**,** BEN-Beyond the Elusive Nomads-**,** DoubleCaramel**,** SlytherinPrinzessin**,** Casimir Paulaski Day**,** Team Guy of Gisborne**!

And the unsigned reviews. Because I love you guys just as much. To** Cold-and-Shadowed**, **Freckle**, **ZellaLuff**,** Isabella Marie Swan**,** D**, **xoulblade**, **Jenna**,** ScribbleScribe**, **Kailey**,** SlytherinLuver**,** CrazyArtist**, I'm so glad you guys are enjoying my fic, and thank you, sincerely, for your kind, kind reviews.

**XxHarmonyDraconisxX** – you're right, I do feel lucky to have lured you away from your Dramione obsession. Not so sure about the threat of imminent hunting down and assassinating, though. Rather give that miss, if it's all the same to you, kind sir. Yeah, Alphard has fast become a favourite. I have a friend who would probably do that hunting/assassinating for you if he found out he had an fanfic counterpart, but I love him so much I just had to. And thumbs up for getting the Juliet Montague pun. I thought it was funny, actually, which just shows how utterly hysterical I am. Not. LOL

**Aragornsgirll** – sorry, but no. You can't have Aragorn. You just can't. End of ... Well, you can have ARAGORN - So long as I get VIGGO MORTENSEN. Deal?

**Bella Rose (i heart romance)** – me too! I always cry too. Embarrassing, invariably. The whole Hagrid-Slytherin thing. Hmmm. I never got the impression he was a Slytherin, not after what he said about them in Philosopher's Stone. But, to clear matters up, I hit the HP Lexicon. They had nothing on Hagrid's House when he was in school. But I'm guessing he was Gryffindor. To me, everything about him screams GRYFFINDOR! But that's just me

There aren't words left to tell all you guys how much your reviews mean to me, so I'll keep it short and sweet. Once again, you have outdone yourselves. I have never received so many reviews. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

And a special mention to everyone who got the Finding Nemo reference ("A game? Oh, oh, I love games!" as said by Alphard, stolen from Dory). Feel proud, feel very proud. Others may slight you for this obvious onslaught of movie-geekness, but this Plonker is forever yours, bonded in a bond of Nemoness. Enjoy your well deserved cookies: **moviefan-92**, **natalie211**, **xXKiri-chanXx** - YOU BRAINISH BRAINY BRAINS!

And a little cookie, well more of a general biscuit, a rich tea or something, for those who were man enough to admit their ignorance in the face of the greatness that is Finding Nemo: **Casimir Paulaski Day**,** DoubleCaramel**, **kerofish1**

Oh! And much love to **moony391 **and **kerofish1**because they got the Les Mis reference ("Without a home, without a friend, without a face to say hello to" as thought by Ginny, stolen from On My Own which is sung by Eponine). Les Mis buddies!

* * *

TO EVERYONE: ALPHARD'S SEXUALITY IS NOT UP FOR DISCUSSION. STOP ASKING ME. ALL WILL BE REVEALED, I PROMISE

* * *

Beta'd by my personal guru, **pop-pop-bananas**

**

* * *

Fire & Ice**

Chapter Eleven

_  
Beata Maria  
You know I'm so much purer than  
The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd  
Then tell me, Maria  
Why her smold'ring eyes still scorch my soul  
Like fire, Hellfire  
This fire in my skin  
This burning desire  
Is turning me to sin  
Hellfire – Dark fire  
Now gypsy, it's your turn  
Choose me – or your pyre  
Be mine or you will burn  
_'Hellfire' – from Disney's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

.

(_Tom_)

She called me Harry.

She touched my hand and called me by another man's name. I told her, confessed, forgive me father for I have sinned it's been forever since my last confession, and she said Harry.

My name is not Harry.

It took every ounce of self-control I possessed, sheer iron will and discipline, not to close my hands about her white throat and strangle her as she slept. Perhaps it would quick. Perhaps she wouldn't feel a thing. Perhaps it would be like floating away, a feather catching an updraft. Or, maybe, she would awaken, her lips blue and tiny veins popping in her eyes as her lungs starved. She would struggle and cry, claw my hands with soft fingers; her nails would play God, gouging red rivers across the white plains of my hands. I could see her now, ashen hair sweat-slicked to her face, eyes wide in terror. She would kick and thrash, but I would hold fast. Slowly, her eyes would cloud over and she would realise there was but one escape.

With her last breath she would choke out my name. My face would be the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her. Her lips would freeze around my name. Her eyes would hold my reflection, imprinted forever.

Tom, she would say. Tom.

And I? What would I do? Would I let her die? Should I let her die? As I looked down on her, I realised I was dwelling on the wrong issues. The question was not would I, nor should I? The question was could I let her die?

And the answer …

It all came back to her touch. My hand tingled, pins and needles navigating my veins like a billion tiny jolts of electricity. I was Frankenstein's monster and she was the thunderbolt, breathing life into this second-hand vessel. But she touched so much more than just my hand, a touch that went deeper, a seed burrowing away through the winter, waiting for spring, for some distant warmth to come trickling down so that it might bloom … So deep I felt an urge to excavate, to pick up a knife and dig it out, this weed growing inside of me … but I didn't. Because, maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a weed after all.

Another seed skulked deep inside of me. A seed of doubt.

Burning cold and arctic heat tore through me. I gasped aloud, reeling backwards as true physical pain sliced through my chest. A red hot knife, a thousand daggers of ice. Almost blinded, I staggered from the room. The door slammed shut behind me. The lock's telltale click echoed around my head. Just as the door was locked, as was I. There was no escaping now, no going back. Something inside me had snapped.

A mantra of sighed Harry's, snapping locks and pounding feet thundered through my head, blocking out the real world. I wasn't even aware that I was moving, running, until my feet hit something wet. A splash. Cold water distilled my thoughts and I stopped. As though separated from my body, I could hear my heart beat. Solid, undeniable proof that I was still part human.

Through misty eyes, I took in my surroundings. Chipped sinks. Water swishing around the floors, gurgling down overflowing drains. Cracked mirrors and guttering candles threw broken shadows on the damp walls. I was in a bathroom. The bathroom.

Drawn as though by a magnet, I splashed across the tiles. The tap was cold beneath my caress. My forefinger found the tiny carving of the snake that I had scratched into the tarnished metal upon my discovery of the entrance to the Chamber. I needed no reminder of which tap was which, which held the secrets, yet I had felt a sudden urge to leave a mark. My own mark. Looking back, it had been the right move. It would be suicide for me to reopen the Chamber, either this year or the next, not with Dumbledore breathing down my neck, hiding behind every corner waiting for a mistake, yet, hopefully, another would unearth Slytherin's secrets and unleash the monster once more. As they say, X marks the spot.

My eyes wandered upwards to the mirror. A face, splintered, stared back at me, with pale skin and dark hair. But it was not my own. This boy's cheeks ran high with colour, as though he had painted his skin red with blood, some Indian savage. A white line bisected his face, starting above his right eye and running aground it the middle of his left cheek. His hair hung loose down over his forehead, messy. His eyes were fever bright, clear as water. So clear that I could see right through them down into the workings below. With clinical precision I could see everything he was feeling.

Luxuria. Invidia. Ira. Avaritia. Superbia.

Of the Cardinal sins, this man in the mirror was guilty of five.

Lust, a burning desire for the flesh of another. The man in the mirror was feral with lust, his teeth glinting as he smiled, eyes pulsing with unrestrained hunger. Soon he would pant like a dog. He wanted to see her lying before him, pale in the moonlight, naked. He wondered if she had freckles all over her body. He ached to hear her moan as he kissed her, her breath catch tight in her throat as he touched her, to hear her scream his name, his own and no one else's, because she was his and no one else's.

But my little gypsy had whispered someone else's name.

Envy oozed from my pores like a toxic sludge, it seeped out through my skin, some infectious gas. Cut me and I would bleed green. But was I jealous because I truly wanted her, or simply because she belonged to someone else? Forbidden fruit was so very, very tempting. What was the true source of the oil boiling in my veins, the reason my hands curled into fists, itching, itching to kill? If he, if this Harry was dead, he couldn't have her, could he? And even if he was alive, if he were beneath this very roof, would that stop me? I think not.

Avarice is a curious thing, completely human in its origin. It is sin, a mortal sin, to partake in avarice. To covet. Thou shalt not covet, the Lord doth said. And to the Lord, humanity replied, watch me. Greed for gold, more gold, more power, more of anything, more of everything, more is never enough. The eternal and insatiable desire for more. Because, despite warning, countless warning, greed is suffered from, and suffered. It is human nature to want what is not ours, what we cannot have. We covet. We covet what we see every day.

Greed is a hunger that cannot – can never – be satiated, and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

I beg to differ. Men often make up in blind wrath what they lack in reason. Anger should have a purpose, as should its outcome. A man ought to take pride in his work.

Pride. Such a careful balance must be struck between pride and arrogance, pride and humility. It is a cloth richer than velvet, a jewel more precious than any diamond; your pride is the last thing someone can take from you, but the first thing you can lose by your own fault; too little pride is a lacking as grievous as missing limb, for one must have pride, in one's family, in one's beliefs, in one's self. But too much pride can be fatal. Pride is an admission of weakness; it secretly fears all competition and dreads all rivals.

But I had shelved my pride. I had confessed. I had uttered those three words. Only eight letters between them, less than it took to kill a man. Yet like Avada Kedavra, these words were also permanent. An indelible stain that would not, could not, be scrubbed clean.

Luxuria. Invidia. Ira. Avaritia. Superbia.

In Latin, everything sounds profound. Justified, even. If you want something enough to voice it in another language … Or if you're too ashamed to hear it in your own … Either way, you are animal in a snare, trapped and bleeding, unable to break free.

Completely reliant on the mercy of another.

The animal surged forth. Rebelled. And broke––

The mirror shattered beneath my fist. Glass rained down like broken stars, tinkling on the dirty tiles, splashing into pools. The man in the mirror was gone and I stood alone, breathing heavily, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip of water and blood. Dawn light spilled pure and white through the crusted windows, bouncing off the broken shards of mirror. I looked down. Diamonds glittered in the mud at my feet. I lifted a foot and crushed the nearest shard into powder. And they said diamonds were indestructible. Laughter spilled out my lips. This whole evening was laughable. I was laughable. Lord Voldemort, thwarted by a simple girl, by this mysterious Harry, a shadow whispered at midnight; and just like a shadow, he could be wished away just … like … that …

Another piece of mirror ground to dust. It wafted up through the red water, clinging to the surface like stardust. Rotten apples are apples nonetheless; they still float.

And another.

So very pretty these diamonds were, but so very breakable. And I broke them, just as I would break my gypsy. I would break her to my will until the only name she knew was mine. Below me, down in the dungeons, the Amortenia awaited the final ingredient. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lock of hair. It glowed ruby red in the breaking dawn. Blood red. My own streak of sunrise. I wrapped it around my finger, a ring. Silky, it slipped against my skin like a whisper. I raised it to my face and inhaled. It smelt of sleep and apple blossoms and desire. The stench of deception and magic had dissipated. My eyes travelled to my wrist, to the circlet of hair hidden beneath my sleeve, a circlet of fire, of warmth. I replaced the coil of hair in my pocket. I would risk no harm to it for it was precious to me.

With a slow hand, I smoothed back my hair, fixed my collar and left the bathroom.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

"Vhere haff you been?"

I was returning to my dorm when I heard her. I paused, but did not turn. "And, pray tell me, why are my whereabouts any concern of yours?"

Regan unfolded herself from where she had been leaning against her doorpost and approached. Her face was a smooth mask, though anger rode in her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it seemed the anger was just another mask, hiding something painfully intimate. I didn't bother invading her mind; Regan's feelings meant nothing to me, as I'm sure mine were to her. "It's half-past five. All night I haff vaited for you. You owe me an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything."

I could have left then, just brushed past her … but I didn't. Regan's company was not completely insufferable. On form, she could command a room upon entrance, her quiet intelligence and razor-sharp wit had bested many a man, her appetite for sex was fathomless and she was quite wonderfully ruthless. However, she could just as easily be sulky, lethargic and stubborn. Stubborn like a leech, not stubborn like my Gypsy. She had no fire in her belly, no indomitable spirit. At least, not with me, she didn't. On the rare occasion we fought, it was always she who sought to repair the peace – though when in the company of others, she would hold out until the bitter end. Odd, that. If a task were onerous or particularly tedious, Regan would delegate it to someone else and scream at them when they failed. She expected the men under her spell to do the fighting for her, to take care of the dirty work. Whereas my Gypsy was fiercely independent; she would kick and scream, never giving in, never saying never, never dying without a whisper. If there was no way to be found, she would make one.

I respected this about her because it reminded me so much of myself.

Yet I got the distinct impression that, no matter what, Gypsy would not shed another's blood. Not even if they had wronged her in a most grievous fashion. She seemed … above something as crude as murder.

I thought of Regan, who, no doubt, would kill her own mother if she might profit from her demise, and a flicker of disgust ran through me. I shook myself. What was I thinking? What had preempted such mutinous thoughts? The end justifies the means, Machiavelli said. Remember, Tom, I told myself. Remember. For the greater good, the words of another great man – Though I wasn't sure if this continued to be his motivation; I knew it certainly was not mine.

Regan caught the smirk on my words and scowled. "Is that so? And, pray tell me, Tom, vould you be playing toy soldiers vith Grindelvald if it veren't for me? Hmm, yes? May I remind you that it vos I that introduced you? He is my godfather."

And my true father.

But I didn't say that aloud; that was between us only.

Stepping past her, I said, "And I thank you for it. Much appreciated."

My reply left her without much to say, a gleaned bone, and she knew it. Her eyes flashed. Demanding, "Vare vere you tonight? Please, Tom, don't make me drag it out of you."

I stopped. "Drag it out of me?" I murmured. Turning around, I stepped close to her, and closer still. I could smell her perfume. Something cloying and heavy, it smelt more of money and sex than flowers. My breath came back to me, bouncing off her exposed throat. "Are you threatening me, Regan Trevelyan?"

"And vot vould you do if I vos?"

I couldn't see her face, but I knew from the sound of her voice. I could saw that grin, catching at the corners of her red lips; spreading, an infection.

My voice like silk, I whispered, "I would threaten you back."

"I'm scared now."

"And so you should be."

"Maybe," she agreed, "but maybe not. Vot if you bluffed and I called it? Vot then?"

"Then …" I lifted her hair, coiling it up into a knot at the top of her skull. A rich yellow gold, like her godfather's. But not red. Not like the liquid fire branding my wrist. Her skin was cool against my lips, like a petal that's been floating in water for too long. I let her hair fall down in front of her face. "Then I suppose I should have to …" I caught her wrist, spinning her around into my chest. We were so close I could feel her heart thudding against my ribs. Unusually fast, as though my presence thrilled her like no other's. My heart did not mutate to imitating a rabid rabbit. I lowered my head, "… improvise."

But Regan drew back, shocked. "Tom!"

"What?" I snapped, irked at the loss of intimacy, the loss of power.

"Tom," she gasped. "Your hand! Look at it … it's bleeding!"

I glanced down. My hand rested in hers. It sparkled in the half-light, so that one might have thought I was wearing many diamond rings. But I wore only old Gaunt's obsidian. I squinted at it, my eyes keen in the darkness. Embedded in my knuckles were a dozen fractures of the mirror, dulled with dried blood. For a minute I stared, completely at a loss to how such an injury could have occurred – Then I remembered the mirror, and how, consumed with pent up rage and desire, I had punched it. My surprise must have shown on my face, because Regan said, "Noticed it you must haff, surely, Tom. It's full of glass." She gazed up at me. Her tone was so strained an eavesdropper would have thought her hand the injured one. "Vot happened?"

"Can't remember," I threw out carelessly.

Regan swallowed. "Come vith me. I vill clean it. Merlin, Tom it's full of glass."

"So you've said," I intoned dryly.

"How could you not notice? It looks so painful."

"It's not."

Regan looked sceptical at my denial but said nothing and I did not challenge her. She sat me down on her bed and swanned off, no doubt in search of her wand. Why did she not have it on her person? I felt incomplete without mine. But when she returned it was with a small vial of blue potion, a handkerchief and tweezers. "For the glass," she explained impatiently.

"Why not use your wand?" I demanded. This is what Muggles did, pulling things from wounds with little metal fingers. Almost barbaric when one thought on it, and generally ineffective.

Regan rewarded me with silence. She knelt down before me and took my hand in hers, straightening it out over my knee with a nurse's kind firmness. A piece of glass popped free. With a wave of her wand, she uncapped the potion bottle and poured a little over my hand. It evaporated in spiralling blue steam as it hit the skin, hissing. Yet I felt no burn of antiseptic, nothing like the callous iodine they used in the orphanage when the little brats scraped their knees. Regan sterilised the tweezers and then set about locating a suitable shard. With deft fingers, she clamped down the on the smallest sliver, and then paused.

I couldn't understand the delay. Intolerant, I sighed. "Do it, Regan, or I will."

Swiftly, she drew it free, twisting sharply as she did so. An unnecessary manoeuvre, doubtlessly intended to inflict suffering, some petty retribution for my supposed negligence. I expected the pain … but there was none.

Another stagnant pause.

"Keep going."

Again, she removed a piece of mirror, laid it down in a little dish, and waited, as if I was meant to say something. Thank you, maybe. I said nothing. Ten seconds later, she continued, and continued, until I understood. She was stopping to allow me wince, cry out even; granting me a window to feel pain without shame. But I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

"Last one," she murmured, hovering over the largest invader. No smirk, no I hope this hurts, cволочь! Her mood was more suited to the bedside of a dying person. And she said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I snapped, suddenly harsh. "Don't ever be sorry. If others were not so weak, there would be no need for apologies."

"But I might hurt you," she whispered.

I raised an eyebrow. "I doubt it."

It took two pulls to extract the final piece. It was a good half-inch long, petering off into a nasty spike. You could do a lot of damage with such an edge. With shaking heads, Regan dropped it into the dish. It clattered and tinkled, making merry music, so innocent. Rather like a young child. Once upon a time we were all innocent, I suppose.

Regan stared into my eyes, daring me to admit the pain … aching for me to confide in her.

Or maybe I was imagining the second meaning. Maybe the blood loss, no matter how I felt, was getting to me. Why would Regan care how I fared, other than my availability when she needed me, for reasons political and physical?

"Did you feel it?"

I stared back into hers. Gaunt's ring twinkled on my finger, an attempt to betray me, proof of my transgression.

"I felt nothing."

My eyes slid back to the ring. Was this why I could not feel the puncture?

In silence, Regan reapplied the potion and started to bandage my hand. She pulled out a handkerchief with her initials embroidered in fine gold on the corner. Folding it up, she wrapped it around my knuckles and tied it neatly. Then she undid the knot and rearranged it so that the initials were clearly visible, her initials. She sought about for another way to tie it; a cover, I suspect – But nothing could disguise a move so transparent. I said nothing. I let her stew in silence. Regan crossed the handkerchief over once and then joined the ends together about my wrist so it formed a figure of eight around my hand. She pushed up my sleeve the better to tie the knot. I yanked it back down, frowning, but too late––

Regan had seen the bracelet.

Quickly, she dropped her eyes, quailing under my glare. Her mouth opened but no words came out, only breath. And the silence marched on.

Satisfied with R.T. emblazoned across my hand, Regan sank back on her heels. She was coiling her hair around her finger. And then, very softly, she said, "You think you can make fool of me, Tom Riddle?"

"Why would I want to make a fool of you?" I asked. I had no such plans.

She did not look at me. "You think you can use me, then cast me aside, like old flowers?"

"I have no use for flowers, old or new," I sniffed.

"May I remind you who my godfather is?"

"You already have."

Regan stood up, a new flower unfolding. "You think I haven't noticed, haven't seen you looking."

I was on my feet, matching her. Anger tickled inside of me. Who was she to reprimand me? "Looking at what?" I demanded. My delivery was sublime: not so pugnacious that my guilt would be obvious, but angry enough to justify a confused denial.

And finally she looked at me. And in her eyes was pity. "You underestimated me, Tom."

I was thrown. Whether it was the pity or the words, I was not sure. I did not need Regan's pity, hers nor anyone else's. I did not want pity. A brief flame of triumph burned in her eyes. I caught it. My anger reared up, no longer a meagre tickle. I snatched her wrist, pulling her in close, my eyes boring down into hers. I could her pulse beneath my fingers. It was languid. I gripped tighter. Her breath met mine in the air and formed a white mist, the hot and the cold. It swirled about us, distancing us from reality.

"Let go of me," Regan glared, her ugly eyes defiant. Finally, a spark. I almost smiled in spite of myself. "Let go of me."

"No," I replied pleasantly.

"Let go of my wrist, Tom."

"No."

She struggled a little, a pout creeping across her mouth, a half-hearted stamp on my foot, but nothing admirable. She guessed it was only a game. "Let me go."

"What? No please?" I teased. "Where are your manners?"

"Let me go, please."

"No."

"If you don't let me go, I vill scream," she threatened. Her pulse raced; thumping so hard I could feel it careening through my own veins. It was exhilarating, a thrill unknown, to have such power over another. Power I would soon wield over my little gypsy.

Drawing her closer, I murmured, "Scream away."

Regan didn't scream. We both knew she wouldn't.

I shook my head, tutting, scolding her. "You bluffed, Regan. And I called it … So now I'm going to have to improvise."

For just one second I saw terror in her eyes, pure terror, more precious than diamonds. It hit me like a warm breath, like the breath of an angel. In that second, I knew I could do almost anything. In that second, Regan Trevelyan was nothing more than putty in my hands. In that second, I was God.

Such a dizzying height is hard to fall from … but I had no plans to fall.

As I brought my lips crashing down on hers, she surrendered. That was the funny thing about Regan. She always surrendered.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

Time slowed as Ginevra raised the goblet to her lips. I could feel the halo of fire burning around my wrist, hear it singing with its mother so close. In a few everlasting seconds she would be mine. Maybe she would throw herself across the table into my arms. Maybe she would fight it for a while, the way I so admired, and then, slowly, cave. A coy glance here. A timid touch there. I would be in charge. I could see it now, see what we would do together. When I controlled her.

Controlled her …

And then the thought exploded. My own private supernova. A fabled epiphany. I did not want another subordinate to order about, a submissive little doll. I didn't want a girl who could not think for herself, who depended on her man for everything. I didn't want a slave who sat waiting for me all day with nothing to do but comb her hair. I did not want another Regan.

I wanted my gypsy. I wanted her spirit, her fire, wanted to feel it burning inside me, burning brighter and fiercer as she gave it to me, bit by bit, night by night, willingly. I wanted her with her lashing tongue, her agile mind, her magical aptitude, confidence and charm. I wanted to know what she knew, about my, about the future she might be privy to, and about her. I wanted her deepest secrets, but I wanted her to spill them in the dark, to give them away by candlelight. I wanted her passion to be my passion. I wanted to fight with her, her to fight with me; to gain her obedience through my own hand.

Love didn't enter into the equation. I wanted her to want me. Want me, like she wanted Harry.

And that gave me another reason, another motive to knock the polluted goblet from her hand, to freeze time right now and prevent the inevitable: this was no longer just about wanting, about her refusal to submit to me. It had escalated. This was now a matter of power, of material possession, and I would not be bested by some shadow. I would enchant the gypsy by my own means. A bond of magic exists only when the magic is strong. A bond of blood runs so much deeper.

A bond of love.

I almost laughed. A bond of love. Dumbledore would be so proud.

I broke the surface, my mind crystal clear, and time accelerated at a thoroughly inconsiderable pace. Now the question of how to stop my gypsy drinking to her death, without being so crude and obvious as to lunge across the table and knock the goblet from her hand. Despite the pernickety question, the answer proved to quite simple.

I smirked at my gypsy. She glared back, pausing for just a second. But a second was enough. Causally, I said, "I wouldn't drink that, if I were you," indicating the pumpkin juice with a nod.

"Lucky for you, you're not me, so you don't have to drink it now, do you?" she retorted scathingly and steamed on ahead, oblivious to the danger lurking.

"I'm serious," I insisted.

A bright smile split her face, so fake it must have hurt. "Well, what do you know, so am I." The smile died. "Now sod off and leave me enjoy my breakfast in peace."

I rolled my eyes. Normally I had no time for this kind of behaviour, it irked me like nothing else, but this morning I was almost enjoying. It was … a challenge. A smirk curled my lips of its own volition. "Are you always this obtuse or am I getting preferential treatment?"

"The only thing you're getting is on my nerves."

"Don't drink it," I cajoled, playing up her defiant streak. "You will regret it, I guarantee you, and it would give me so much pleasure to say I told you so. As much as it pains me to say this, I'm hardly worth it." An obvious lie, but, then again, that was the game.

A game my gypsy evidently did not like. She glowered at me over the goblet, a fire blazing in her eyes. "I thought I told you not to tell me what to do, Riddle. In case you forgot what happened last time you tried to boss me around, I suggest you take a look in this!" And she snatched the pocket mirror Demetrius Zabini was using to examine his hair, much to his distress, and flung it across the tabletop at me. He chose to turn his wrath on my gypsy instead of me, though Mercedes wasn't quite so gracious. I was about to pick up the mirror to toss it back when Gypsy overcut me. "Oh, wait, no. Allow me refresh your memory. Your face." She shook her head, more disappointed than disgusted. "And they told me you were smart."

I just smiled. "You'll be as smart as me if you drink that."

She almost screamed in exasperation. "You just don't get it, do you!" Mercedes wasn't the only one staring at us now. I could feel Regan's eyes through my back. Halfway down the table, Alphard Black and the girl he followed around like some lovesick pup, Juliet Montague, were watching; Montague devouring every breath like a famine victim at the King's banquet. Even the Blacks had stopped breaking the law long enough to catch the end of our exchange of pleasantries. "I'm not one of your little minions, Riddle. You can't order me around like them. I know that's hard for you to accept but, for your own sake, cop on already. You're embarrassing yourself. And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to enjoy my pumpkin juice." With a cheery wink, she raised the cup to her lips.

Stranded, I had only one choice.

The goblet slipped from her grasp and shattered on the table edge. Pumpkin juice spilled into Gypsy's lap and she sprang back from the table, crying out. When she cleaned herself up and turned on me, the fire in her eyes was so bright it could have ignited a candle at ten paces. Desire crawled over my skin like an insect, a smoggy summer. Her hands shook but her voice was steady. "You're a real bastard, you know that? Yes, that's right, you just sit there and smirk. It's all some game to you, isn't it? You think you can do whatever you want, play with the big boys all night long." She drew a savage breath and raged on, her tone that excessive pleasant that people reserve for those they truly despise. "But here's a little life lesson for you. When stupid little boys play with fire, stupid little boys get their fingers burnt."

Four seats down, Crabbe's porridge exploded. He had tried to heat it up by dousing it in Casey's Bloody Maureen and setting it on fire. Congruent with the laws of physics, the ethanol ignited. In an instant, we were forgotten, replaced by Crabbe and his soot-blacken face, two eyes gawping gormless at the mess in front of him.

Probably by mistake, she caught my eye.

Eyebrow raised, I rolled my eyes at Crabbe.

She giggled. I snapped back to watch her. She was staring at Crabbe, hands plastered over her mouth, trying her utmost not to laugh – but it escaped, little bubbles of it creeping to the surface, until she could hold on no longer and dissolved into hysterics. The rest of the table stared at her, openly disgusted by such an outcry of emotion, and she laughed on, refusing to conform. Pride surged up inside me like a freshly-fuelled fire. Pride, and something else … something I couldn't quite put a name on. A thought, maybe, more than an emotion; a realisation, even.

I had made her laugh.

The thought made me oddly buoyant. So much so that I actually stood up, which meant I had to leave, or face questions as to why I had chosen this morning to showcase my Jack-In-The-Box impression. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Regan rise. I winked down at my gypsy. She nodded stiffly. "Until next time, Riddle."

"The anticipation is killing me," I replied smoothly, burying sincerity in sarcasm.

"Not if I get there first."

* * *

You see? No nasty cliffie this time. Now how about a nice review in return, eh? LOL! Please do, the feedback I got for the last chapter was UNBELIEVABLE. I felt so honoured to be getting so much praise from my fellows. Please keep it up. It's inspiring, it truly is.

And I swear, the chapter is already written and in the capable hands of my Beta, to be updated ASAP – no six week gaps, not this time! Sorry about that.

FYI, a Bloody Maureen is a Bloody Mary with Guinness instead of vodka. The Irish Connection, if you will.

Cheers, Plonksie

ps: a cookie to anyone who finds the Steinbeck reference. A big cookie


	12. Chapter Twelve

_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER ELEVEN:_

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Now do it again.

Please

_**Signed Reviews:**_ I answered all of these personally, but here's another mention, just because I LOVE YOU GUYS –

_**nicole317, anonymous1996, SSims, MademoiselleDanielleDelacour **_(sorry. Fecking FF wouldn't allow me put the full stops in. Forgive me!)_**,**_ _**Mechanical Orange, moviefan-92, Amylin, Christin, vulgarity, Slytherin Lover, xxFleeTheMurderScene, LarkaSpirit, xXKiri-chanXx, thngsunvrmention, Moogle from Cyrodiil, natalie211, Kaarmae Zia **_(don't worry, my dear. They shall. V soon, now)_**,**_ _**DawnFire and Silver Huntress, deeps85 **_(break? Oh no. Bending is far more fun! And subtle_** ,**_ _**Team Guy of Gisborne **_(TEAM ROBIN! COZ HE'S A PADDY! ... But, yes, Richie is a SEXGOD! There's a party in my pants and he is SO invited! LOL)_**,**_ _**loriene, ADarkGinny,**_ _**moony391 **_(my Les Mis buddy. Indeedy tweedy!)_**,**_ _**aragornsgirll **_(ditto. Party in my pants with Viggo)_**,**_ _**erika giggles, Molly Goode, Immortal Blueberries **_(I LOVE BLUEBERRIES! I had a blueberry muffin this morning. My mammy made some yesterday. V odd, because she never makes muffins ... V odd)_**,**_ _**darkangel8694 **_(yes, yes rape hug indeed. I second that. There's a party in my pants and all my OCs are invited. But only if they bring Pringles. The Sour Creme and Onion kind, too. Don't like the others)_**,**_ _**muddy worm, Robinjay, Casimir Paulaski Day **_(I know! I wrote that in the rough draft. My beta and I laughed rather hard. Funny mental image, you know ... _They call me Lord. They call me Voldy. They call me He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named _[wow, did a bit of a Bob Dylan on it there. TOO MANY WORDS!])_**,**_ _**Michelle Black aka Elle,**_ _**mariababii xo, BEN-Beyond the Elusive Nomads-, Lummylicious, Claerwen, McMuffin **_(didn't I say I had a muffin this morning? Well, I did. And it was blueberry. And it was nummy)_**,**_ _**DoubleCaramel **_(Mitch can come too. Oh yes. We need a blonde at this pants party)_**,**_ _**loonynameless, MissMusa, chini, ReadBetweenMyLines, Immortal Strawberries **_(hmmmm can't say I like them as much as I like blueberries. But they do LOOK nice, y'know?)

And, equal love, to the _**Unsigned Reviews: **_

_**Bella Rose **_– so glad you're enjoying it. Thanks

_**hah-nahh **_– easier said than done with the Romeo. Men, in general, are rather retarded. Tends to get in the way some times. LOL

_**updateASAP **_– what a v convenient penname! Well, update I have, and I can't say how much your praise meant. I'm thrilled you like my fic

_**Bookworminlove **_– of course I update! Sometimes it takes me a while, but I ALWAYS update. V glad you like it. As for Betas, well I have one main one for all the big details and stuff, but, sure, I'd love your help too if you're willing. Though I would really only need you to go over the chapter and watch out for typos and grammatical errors and stuff. PM me if you're still interested!

And we all love _**anonymous1996 **_for getting the Steinbeck reference. It was a quick quote from _The Grapes of Wrath _– _In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage_ – Enjoy your cookie, you lovable lovable nerd. And we also love_** natalie211 **_for her brave attempt, and _**Claerwen and Michelle Black aka Elle **_for admitting they, like Manuel, know NOTHING. Kudos, homies.

* * *

_Beta'd by __**pop-pop-bananas

* * *

**_

**Fire & Ice**

Chapter Twelve

_  
And I just can't look its killing me  
And taking control  
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea  
Swimming through sick lullabies  
Choking on your alibis  
But it's just the price I pay  
Destiny is calling me  
_'Mr. Brightside' – The Killers

.

(_Ginny_)

Thursday meant double Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Merrythought, a witch so incredibly old I'd have bet my broomstick (if I had a broomstick) that she had been around when the Founders ran Hogwarts; she'd even met Merlin, she was that old – as were her teaching methods. Therefore it was without much cheer that I rolled out of bed a little after Juliet's alarm clanged. I could hear her fussing about in the tiny bathroom we shared, most likely already dressed, as I scavenged for my tie.

"Ginevra," she declared, exiting the bathroom wielding her hairbrush like a weapon. No matter how many times I asked her to call me Ginny, she stuck resolutely to Ginevra; probably thought Ginny was too common a name for a Slytherin. "I have to talk to you. I've been sitting on this for a few days now and now that all possible conclusions have been drawn, I think it best just to get it out in the open." She stopped in front of the large mirror mounted on the dorm wall, hairbrush poised. She always said the light here was better than in the bathroom, even though mould sprouted from the mottled silver frame.

"By all means, get it out there," I replied absently, preoccupied with my runaway tie.

"You aren't listening to me," she stalled.

I lit my wand and focused the beam under my bed. "Of course I am. Go on."

"Ginevra, this is important. It involves you. You simply must _listen_."

"I'm listening."

"No, you're not!" Juliet exclaimed, stamping her foot. "You're under your bed! Get out, for Merlin's sake. What if someone came in and saw you there? If you behave so sloppy in decorum in our private lives, how long before it leaks into your public one? And you'll have no one to blame but your own self," she finished with satisfaction.

I withdrew from under the bed and spotted my tie draped over my bedside lamp. Triumphant, I turned to Juliet. "You were saying?" I asked brightly. After last Monday's episode, the one when she called me an Irish muck savage and, without much subtly, implied I was a disgrace to the name Slytherin, I had simply resolved to let all her remarks on my appearance, behaviour and all-around aptitude for the great and honourable House of Slytherin fall on deaf ears. I wasn't here to be insulted by Juliet Montague, I was here with a clear purpose, a higher purpose. The memory of Harry's visit was still fresh in my mind and I continued to draw strength from it. A little part of me was convinced he had visited me every night since, though without speaking, just sitting and watching over me like a guardian angel, but it was most likely my subconscious giving me what I wanted.

Juliet pouted, obviously insulted that I had not been giving the attention she felt she deserved.

"Tell me, Juliet. I'd be happy to help," I rallied. "You did say it was important."

"Not to you, evidently," she retorted in a lofty voice that reminded me of Hermione. The thought of my best friend brought a smile to my face. Juliet noticed it and scowled.

"No, no, it's very important to me," I insisted. "I'm sorry I wasn't listening. I had to find my tie." I held up the recovered garment to prove my point.

Juliet was not impressed. "You've got dust in your hair. Why are you smiling when you've got dust in your hair?"

I shook my head to dislodge any unwanted clumps of fluff. "Thanks for the heads up. Much appreciated."

"Why are you so cheerful all of a sudden?" Juliet asked shrewdly. She stopped playing with her hair and stared at me through the mirror. "For two months you are nothing but sulks and moods but since Monday you've been awfully happy. Why? What happened on Monday? Was it Riddle? Did he say something to you? I saw the two of you talking before Crabbe made a complete fool of himself in front of the whole school … And I saw you laughing afterward," she added disapprovingly. "You were very loud. Could you not be so crude in future, especially when sitting with the Hierarchy? Remember, you have your Halloween assessment in two weeks."

"I'd forgotten about that," I muttered. "Stupid thing."

Juliet was scandalised. "_Forgot?_" she repeated, her voice dangerously high-pitched. "_Stupid thing?_ Are you actually _out of your mind?_"

"Not that I'm aware of," I said cheerfully, lacing up my shoes. "They might as well save themselves the bother and cancel it. I don't want to be a part of their inane little club and I don't think they want me there either. It'll just be an opportunity for them to embarrass me and I'd rather not spend a perfectly good evening being slandered, if that's all the same to you."

Juliet slapped me.

I hadn't been expecting it and the shock sent me wheeling backwards onto the bed. "What was that for?" I gasped, clutching my smarting cheek. Shock and hurt, more emotional than physical, stole my breath away. I stared at her, my eyes welling up despite myself. And I wasn't the only one crying. Silent tears poured down Juliet's face.

"That was for being the most selfish, not to mention insufferable … insufferable …" Juliet was so angry she struggled for words strong enough, "insufferable – filthy_ harlot!_ – that I have ever had the misfortune to meet. They grant you a second chance – even though you clearly don't deserve it – and, here you are, you ungrateful little beast, calling it a _stupid thing_. Have you no shame? This is chance most people would die for. A chance _I _would die for," she sobbed, clutching at her chest. She uttered a keening cry and buried her face in her hands. "And to think I had been about to ask you should I wear my hair straight for a change. To ask you, of all people, _you!_ Why, you probably would have persuaded me to shave it all off, you with your devious, hurtful mind. You're as bad as Riddle!" She turned on me, suddenly raging, delirious in her fury, quite unaware of what she was saying. "And after everything I've done for you! Oh, well, I am glad that I have had the chance to see you for who you truly are. Your gypsy magic doesn't work on me. I know how your evil, evil mind works. You think you're pretty, but you'll never be as beautiful as me! You'll never get Alphard. You're not worthy of his affections!"

And she fled the room in floods of tears, leaving me quite alone.

Slowly, I got to my feet, my cheek still raw and smarting from her blow and my heart equally wounded by her cruel words. I teetered to the bathroom and peered at my reflection through clouded eyes. Juliet's handprint stood out livid against my pale skin, shame's five-fingered tattoo. Just looking at my face made me want to cry again, but I fought the tears.

"Blondie?" Alphard's chipper voice wafted in through the open door, his timing as impeccable as always. "Blondie? Hello? Anybody home? Come out, come out, wherever you are … Blondie, I know you're in here. I'll find you, you and your luminous hai–– Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear." Alphard stood in the bathroom door, looking down on me with warm eyes. He held out his arms. Like a child, I fell into them. "What happened, eh? What happened? Never fear, Alphard's here."

"Nothing," I sniffled into his shoulder.

Alphard stroked my hair with soft hands. "Come-come-come, Blondie. While the rest of the male race wouldn't notice a crying girl unless she danced naked in front of them, I wasn't born yesterday. Something upset you. Tell your old chum Alphard and he'll go off and find someone bigger and stronger to hex them for you."

I giggled weakly and Alphard smiled. Stepping back from me, he sat me down on the edge of the bathtub. "What happened? You can tell me. I won't rush to exact revenge, if that's not what you want. Though I can't promise you that the culprit won't find themselves … well, let's not get into that. Unpleasant business, that, especially with breakfast right around the corner. Yes, well." He rubbed his hands together, gazing forlornly down at me. In the mirror I proved a pitiful figure, perched on the bath, Juliet's handprint red as ever. "Let's do something about that face, shall we?" he said quietly.

I nodded. "Please."

A quick Glamour charm dispelled the redness but it was still tender. I poked my tongue at the inside of my cheek and winced. "Here," Alphard muttered. He soaked a facecloth in cold water and held it to my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear to spare it getting wet. I was so unused to such compassion I broke down and sobbed against Alphard's chest. "Ssshhh," he soothed, fishing out a familiar-looking handkerchief. "Sssshhh. You go on and cry, Blondie. You cry your heart out. Alphard's here … You know," he began, a little hesitant. "I saw Juliet running down the hall. I called to her but she ignored me. I didn't think it such a big deal then – only her ignoring me, such is life. But now I have new perspective. You two didn't have a little tiff, now, did you? Honestly, you argue more than my grandparents and they've been married for fifty-three years …" He gave a little laugh which transcended into a sigh. "Look," he said, sincere, "I know you and Juliet don't see eye-to-eye all the time, but once you get to know her, really know her, you'll find out how phenomenal a girl she is. Once you get past all that infernal Hierarchy business."

"She's a cow," I mumbled.

"That she can be, at times," Alphard conceded.

"_All _the time."

"Don't be mean."

"Don't be stupid."

"I prefer _optimistic_," he grinned. "The goblet is half full."

I gave a derisive snort. "It's half empty. And cracked. And I just cut my lip– "

"And cracked a tooth," Alphard offered up. "Which you swallowed. And it tore a hole in your windpipe– "

"Which became infected."

"And required immediate amputation."

"You can't amputate a head," I objected.

"Don't be silly, of course you can. It's called decapitation, from the Latin, _caput_, meaning head." Alphard stuck out his bottom lip, thinking. "Or perhaps from the German, _kaputt_, meaning broken? … _Dekaputtitiate_."

"_Dekaputtitiate_," I repeated.

Alphard looked mortally offended. "Well _I _think it's catchy."

I stared at Alphard for a moment and then burst into wet laughter. _Dekaputtitate_. A smile blossomed across his face. "Now, see look. Lookee here. You're smiling. I love your smile."

And that was when Juliet returned.

And saw me laughing in Alphard's embrace, his violet silk handkerchief clutched tight in my fist, and Alphard holding the cold cloth to my face, stroking my hair, laughing with me … and heard him say _I love your smile_. A terrible smile split her cherubic face, turning her into something quite frightening, near demonic. "Well there you have it! I caught red-handed, you whore! There can be no excuses this time." Her voice shook with an uncontrollable rage. "You can have him! It's not like _I _wanted him anyway. I would never degrade myself with such an affiliation." She slammed the door on her way out.

Alphard stopped stroking my hair. His hand fell away and the cloth slide down my face and hit the floor with a wet _thud_.

"She didn't mean that," I said instantly, reaching for him, for Alphard seemed quite beside himself. One look at his face and I knew there was nothing I could say, but I tried anyhow. I truly cared for Alphard and seeing him so tortured hurt me. "Alphard. Listen to me. She didn't mean that. It's the anger talking. We had a huge fight five minutes ago and she accused me of trying to stea– "

But Alphard was gone, and, once again, I was left alone. Why I had befriended two such difficult people, I'll never know. I sat in the bathroom for a long time before remembering I had a class to attend.

.

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

.

(_Tom_)

Defence Against the Dark Arts, the class and everything it involved, I am sure, was weekly penance for my sins, for only a higher being would think to concoct a torment as tedious as class upon class of watching pathetic people attempting to master similarly pathetic jinxes and counter-curses. As if the Leg-Locker curse, the current vogue, would stand a chance against any hex of my invention. As we were now Sixth Years, dear old Professor Merrythought deemed our fragile minds mature enough to withstand so-called Dark Creatures, and the last succession of classes had been a torture unknown as she succeeded in sending half the class to sleep during her lectures on Inferi. So when Nott told us at breakfast that Merrythought had been taken ill and we would have a different teacher, his words were met with much relief and a sense of anticipation. I, however, was not so easily converted. Defence Against the Dark Arts was still defence _against_ the Dark Arts, no matter who taught it.

"Five Galleons on Slughorn," Orion Black pledged as we awaited our substitute.

Nott snorted. "Don't be a fool. Slughorn wouldn't teach another class if you paid him." And he chuckled wryly at his own joke.

Black looked affronted. "How about Holtz, then?"

"The Astronomy Professor?" Malfoy said. "He's too busy looking at Uranus!"

Nott rolled his eyes while the pair doubled up with laughter, serenaded by their lady friends. Drowning cats were more musical. "Who do you think?" he asked me. "Rumour has it Flitwick, that new Charms bloke, used to be some sort of Duelling champion."

Slowly, I shook my head. "Flitwick? I wouldn't think so. Duelling champion he may be, but old Dippet would hardly trust fresh blood with a class as important as Defence Against the Dark Arts. Unfortunately."

Nott understood. "Leaves only one man," he sighed. "Unfortunately."

I nodded. "Unfortunately."

Dumbledore entered the classroom and the Gryffindors cheered, all clamouring to have just _known_ it would be he teaching them. Dumbledore smiled, eyes a-twinkling like some badly-wired Christmas light, and bade them settle down while he called the role. A religious silence reigned over the classroom, punctuated only by declarations of presence, until, somewhere around the P's, the door banged open and into the classroom, red-cheeked and panting, stumbled none other than my gypsy.

"Sorry, Professor," she gasped. "I lost track of the time. Sorry."

"Not to worry, not to worry," said Dumbledore, waving her into a seat. "It could happen to a Bishop. Sit down and get your wand out. And that goes to the rest of you, too," he added, looking up from the register. "Please have your wands at the ready … Persephone Parkinson? Eugene Prewett?"

Bored, but not enough so to join in on Malfoy and Black's conversation, I stared about the room. Defence Against the Dark Arts, like all my class apart from Arithmancy, was without Regan … and with Ginevra. She sat in solitary confinement at the back of the classroom, taking notes on a scrap of parchment – but the class had yet to begin. Perhaps she doodling, or playing noughts and crosses with herself, or doing her Transfiguration Homework, as Alphard Black was, scribbling furiously up near the front. I couldn't help but notice that the three Musketeers had dispersed themselves around the classroom, each looking as though the other two played host to the Bubonic Plague, especially in Montague's case; she kept turning to glare at her former companions. She could not have been less subtle if she tried. Her sense of betrayal was so obvious I could see the twin knives sticking out from her back. Black looked more anguished than vengeful. My gypsy was harder to tally. Her hair hung in a curtain, shielding her face from view, an impenetrable wall. Judging from her body language alone, she was hurt and confused.

No one hurt what was mine. No one but me.

At the front of the class, Dumbledore was now ready to teach. He folded up the register and shook back his sleeves. There was a single word chalked on the blackboard, the topic of today's lesson. "Dementors," Dumbledore said, to much whispering and shivers. I rolled my eyes. Of course he would pick Dementors; a chance to prove what a liberal and bleeding-heart he was, how could he pass it up? If he wasn't such a Samaritan, I would have bet he poisoned Merrythought to get his hands on this class. "Today we will study the powers of Dementors and how we can defend ourselves from them. Depending on how well you do, we might even have to practise on a false Dementor. Now. Can anyone tell me what a Dementor is?" A forest of hands went up, all of the Ravenclaws backstabbing each other to be the first to give a correct answer.

As Dumbledore called on one of them, Malfoy leant towards me to whisper, "According to Father, Merrythought is retiring for sure come June. Either that, or Dippet will give the old bat the sack."

"And where did you father get his information?" I asked, feigning interest. Detecting when Malfoy was using his father as a vessel for a self-gratifying lie was as about as complicated as Crabbe's thinking process.

Malfoy cleared his throat, he way he always did before he said something important or impressive. Or, should I say, something he thought to be important or impressive. "Well, Father's been putting pressure on Dippet to hire someone who can actually teach this class. It's only a matter of time now. Father is very influential," he finished smugly.

"By _actually _teach, do you mean a Professor who will teach actual Dark Arts, instead of this Defence drivel? Something more along the lines of what we are doing? … Or someone who will give you an O based on your surname rather than the actual contents of your essay?"

Malfoy flushed. "The first one."

"I see."

"Father said they were discussing a new Professor at the Board of Governors' meeting last week," Malfoy said quickly, covering his tracks. "I only assumed it was Merrythought."

I nodded. "Of course. However, according to my source, who is better informed than yours, clearly, the post in contention is Ancient Runes, not Defence Against the Dark Arts. And while we're on the topic of the Dark Arts– " I turned my head to fix Malfoy with a withering stare. "If I ever catch you speaking of our clandestine activities outside of the common room, I will curse your runaway tongue so that it rots out of your head. Understood?"

Malfoy's eyes widened in the horror. "Of course, My Lord. Of course," he blathered, shying away from me, his greasy cool obliterated. "I apologise, forgive me. A slip of the tongue. It won't happen again. I swear on my mother's grave, it won't happen again."

"I know it won't. And Malfoy– "

"Yes, My Lord."

"Do not use that name in public."

"Of course not."

"And Malfoy."

"Yes?" Malfoy asked, swallowing.

I smirked at him, idly twirling my wand around my fingers. "Are you honestly stupid enough to think that Dippet would permit one of his Professors to teach the Dark Arts? This is Hogwarts, not Durmstrang. If you want to learn how to kill your dorm mate for sleeping with your fiancée, or at least to hold your own against him without having to resort to using articles of furniture as battering rams like a common Muggle, you ought to go there."

"I don't need to go to Durmstrang," Malfoy said stubbornly, ignoring my reference to his little fracas with Nott, Persephone Parkinson and the lamp. "I have you. You can teach me anything."

"True," I agreed, anything to rid myself of the sycophantic little leech. "True."

At the front of the class, Dumbledore was now prattling on about the effects of the Dementor's Kiss, obviously repulsed by the idea, and I could smell a marathon debate on whether or not it was ethical to use Dementors as guards at Azkaban on the horizon, a Pandora's Box just waiting to be opened. Personally, I had no qualms with the Azkaban guards; the residents deserved to be punished, not for their crimes, but for their stupidity in allowing themselves be incarcerated.

The lesson rambled on, as monotonous as ever. I already knew everything there was know about Dementors, from how to repel them, to what was under their hoods, to that they starved at Azkaban and how, to be certain, they would desert the prison in an instant if granted a free reign on society. It was one of Grindelwald's plans: set the Dementors on the Muggles. They couldn't see them, yet felt their effects still, hopelessness without relief – unless some do-gooding Wizard intervened. Which, invariably, they did, and why I shall never know.

Near the front, Eugene Prewett asked, "And what do they look like, these Patronus-y things?"

"Each one is unique to the witch or wizard who conjures it," said Dumbledore. "Mine, for example, is a phoenix." And, without warning, a huge majestic bird ignited from his wand tip and swooped around the room, piping soundlessly, circling higher and higher. No matter where I looked, the silver burned my eyes, commanding my gaze. I stared. It was truly an awesome sight. The Phoenix flew low between the desks, darting back and forth as people reach out to touch its ghostly feathers, and came to perch on Dumbledore's shoulder where it lingered for a moment before dissolving to a standing ovation.

"Corporeal Patronuses are easy to produce in a stable environment," he lectured. "I am certain that most of you, if you try harder enough, will be able to conjure one when we practise in a few moments. However, when it is time to practice on our shadow Dementor, I am equally certain that very few of you, if not none, will be able to summon a Patronus strong enough to withstand it." At his words there was much bluffing and blustering from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Dumbledore smiled at this, as though he expected such a reaction. His eyes mapped the class, etching us out individual by individual. I stared stonily back, unfaltering, challenging him, but he passed after a moment's pause. "Keeping one's Patronus strong when faced with a Dementor is not an easy feat. Courage or cleverness will not protect you. They are not enough."

"What will protect us?" asked a timid Hufflepuff, obviously taken with Dumbledore's theatrics.

"Your heart."

The answer came strong from the back of the class. My gypsy was sitting upright, her wand out and ready. Whispers broke out like little hissing fires, but Dumbledore was impressed. "Very astute, Miss MacKenna. As we know, Patronuses are a kind of Anti-Dementor, a guardian which acts as shield between you and the Dementor. It is a force of pure positivism, a projection of the very things that the Dementors feed upon – hope, happiness, the desire to survive – but it cannot feel despair, as you, real humans, can, so the Dementors cannot hurt it."

"How do you make one?" demanded an overeager Ravenclaw.

"With an incantation– " he rapped the board with his wand, indicating the words _Expecto Patronum _" –which will only work if you concentrate every fibre of your being one single, very happy memory."

"A memory?" scoffed the Ravenclaw. "What good will a memory do?"

"A Dementor feeds on peace, hope and happiness, the very substance a Patronus consists of. However, the Patronus can only exist if you, its conjurer, fuel enough hope and happiness into the incantation to neutralise the Dementor's power. The easiest way to achieve this is through the use of a powerfully happy memory."

"Like what?"

Dumbledore scratched his chin. "Often, I find myself thinking of a Christmas a long, long time ago, when my brother Aberforth's goat got into the house and devoured the Christmas tree, decorations and all, much to the amusement of my father and younger sister. My mother, on the other hand …" He trailed off, dropping his eyes. I inched forward. Why? Why was this memory, this 'powerfully happy' memory, so hard for him to speak of? But before I could delve further, Dumbledore rallied, "But that's just me. Now, into pairs all of you, and we'll practise the incantation."

With Nott as my partner, we sat back as the class shouted _Expecto Patronum _as one. "You might not like him," Nott whispered, nodding at Dumbledore. "But you can't deny. He's got style."

I said nothing. I was watching my gypsy endure Michael Potter, the Quidditch hero. I suspect he thought himself the big brave man, daring to spar with the infamous Gypsy. Together, they were repeating the spell under Dumbledore's direction. Potter stood close to her.

Too close.

"Now, with wands!" cried Dumbledore. "Number yourself one and two. Number ones will try first, then twos, and so on and so forth."

"One or two?" smirked Nott.

I raised an eyebrow. "Still think he's got style?"

"Whatever he has, Malfoy doesn't," Nott sniggered, pointing at Malfoy and Black.

"I'm surprised they actually manage to decide on who got to be number one," I drawled.

"Maybe they flipped a coin?"

"But whose coin?"

But Malfoy was not alone in failing. No number one managed to conjure even a dismal silver mist Dumbledore didn't seem to care and egged on the number twos. "Ready? On my count. Three, two, one– "

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_"

When it happened, it was dazzling. An enormous silver vixen, so bright it almost blinded me, erupted forth from my gypsy's wand. It padded around the room, slinking under chairs, pouncing over desktops amid a screaming crowd. Like always, it returned to its creator for just a moment, bushy tail whipping through the air, before vanishing.

"Most impressive," remarked Dumbledore, and for some reason he did not seem surprised. But, then again, neither was I. If anyone could do it, she could. "Most impressive, Miss MacKenna. Am I right in guessing you have done this spell before?"

She nodded.

"Still, impressive. Take twenty points for Slytherin."

Twenty minutes later and half a dozen or so silvery animal gambolled about the room, all of which steered clear from our corner, frightened off by Nott's silvery crocodile. The air was wrought with yells; the moronic people seemed to think the louder they shouter, the higher their chance at success. I was pleased to see that Potter had yet to achieve anything more than a shimmering mist. My eyes narrowed as he enlisted the help of his partner. Heads together, they talked. Her hand on his, holding his wand steady. "Concentrating?" she asked him.

"Yeah."

"On three. One. Two. Thre– "

Potter bellowed, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM_," and a vast silver hawk burst from his wand tip. "Yeah!" he yelled. "Yeah! Look at him go! YEAH!"

"Well done," cheered Ginevra enthusiastically, clapping. "I knew you could do it."

"I knew I could too. You just – you helped. Thanks."

"The great Michael Potter saying thank you to little old me?" she mocked. Her tone irked me: playful. "Can I have that in writing?"

Potter shrugged modestly, running a hand through his hair. "They say a lot about me. Just talk, most of it. I'm not that great."

Liar.

"You're right," she agreed readily. Potter's smile froze. A smirk curled my lips. And she didn't stop there. I expect her to go on, to strike him down as I had seen her do to Malfoy and Black the very first time I saw her. I still remember every word she said that night.

"You're not great," she said. "You're _amazing_."

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Ooohh … not an evil cliffie, but a cliffie nonetheless. An _emotional_ cliffie

And, as pointed out by my wonderful wonderful beta, the lamp incident. Next chapter, I promise, you will all know ALL about the lamp incident. Excited?

This chapter it's guess the _Harry Potter_ quote. There's at least two, so have your eyes peeled. Virtual cookies up for grabs.

And remember, my pretties, REVIEW. Reviewed authors are happy authors. Harry authors update, which generates reviews, which makes authors happy, which makes them update – see? A whole circle of happiness just waiting to happen.

Cheers, Plonksie


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: **ok, so have been AWOL for a DISGUSTING amount of time and I'M SO SORRY! Life really came up and bit me in the ass, that's all I can say. Swine flu, school work, family stuff. I won't bore you with the details. Good news, I have Chapter 13 all up and posted, just for you guys! And I can promise Chapter 14 before Christmas – LOL!  
Enjoy it!

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REVIEW REPLIES_

I just checked and this story has **367** reviews! OMFG! You guys, I can't thank you, you're really something special.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to _**Silvertabbymars**_, _**13opals**_,_** an idosyncratic**_,_** springawakening1894**_,_** Michelle Black AKA Elle**_,_** SeeksDreamsAndFindHope**_,_** MidnightxRed**_,_** GoldenFawkes**_,_** opaque-girl**_,_** Anonymous1996**_,_** OoShatteredGlassoO**_,_** lotsa-ppl-luv-me**_,_** kayellis**_,_** i heart romance**_,_** Tabbyprincess**_,_** TwiLyght Sans Sparkles**_,_** CassR.**_,_** alelunita**_,_** Diskret**_,_** Nait**_,_** ms Masen**_,_** Victoria Jane**_,_** E**_,_** crazyelf22**_,_** ..x.**_,_** loonynameless**_,_** RaeLeeMac**_,_** Stepz -**_,_** Rialeae**_,_** loreine**_,_** miathermopolis**_,_** xXKiri-chanXx**_,_** NovemberDreamer**_,_** Jen103**_,_** SlytherinPrinzessin**_,_** jgallifrey10**_,_** Immortal Blueberries**_,_** darkangel8694**_,_** Robinjay**_,_** Avalonfreak**_,_** Mechanical Orange**_,_** PortraitOfALady**_,_** LarkaSpirit**_,_** muddyworm**_,_** WWWlsrfan113**_,_** MissMusa**_,_** Lummylicious**_,_** .Delacour**_,_** aragornsgirll**_,_** Claerwen**_,_** erika giggles **_–thank you SO much, all of you. Sorry I couldn't reply individually, but I just got them all I was a bit swamped; plus, I figured you would prefer it if I posted ;)

Beta'd, as always, by my own personal saviour, **_pop-pop-bananas_** – without her, this story would not exist. Fact.

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**Fire & Ice**

Chapter Thirteen

_  
His eyes are locked on her  
Her eyes are fixed elsewhere  
He's confident, but he's not aware  
She doesn't care  
Their only connection is the silence that they both grasp  
He's lost control  
But she's not aware, of his stare_  
'Anything Can Happen In The Next Half-Hour' – Enter Shikari

_.  
_

(_Ginny_)

The situation was so strange I had to work hard not to laugh: I was talking to Harry's grandfather – a man Harry himself had never even met! A part of me wanted to run and hide, thought this situation utterly bizarre, and a tad bit disturbing. The resemblance between them was uncanny. The same slight physique with bony elbows and sharp cheekbones, the same jet black in a state of electrocuted disarray, the same boyish grin; the only real difference I could see was the colour of his eyes – a light hazel, and not the emerald green I loved. Being near Michael only made me miss Harry even more. His presence dug up all those feelings of grief and pain, loss and love, the longing for my old time, my old life, and the fear and loneliness of this new one that I had forced six feet under; now they had resurfaced and stung like fresh burns – but a much larger part of me wanted to stay, wanted to get to know this boy, to be near him, because, in some incomprehensible way, I found his presence comforting. I felt safe around him. Maybe it was because he looked so like Harry, the similarities between them a cool numbing charm on the dull ache deep inside my chest. I had always felt safe with Harry. Always.

The sickness and the cure, irrevocably intertwined.

At first Michael Potter seemed apprehensive of me. This was understandable, as, allegedly, I had enough power in my fingertips to turn him to stone, and relations were not helped when I dented his manly pride by mastering the spell before him. I didn't see the need to tell him I had been taught the spell three years before, by his own grandson, no less, or that I had used it countless times against real live Dementors, but he mellowed out as I helped him conjure a Patronus of his own, and all was water under the bridge when the talk turned to Quidditch. Compliment a boy on his Quidditch skills and he'll be your friend for life. I didn't need to resort to false flattery, however. Unsurprisingly, Michael was a very good player. It ran in the family.

"Don't think I'm a stalker or anything, but I saw you training a week ago," I told him. I had been walking the grounds with Hagrid when I spied the Gryffindor team training. An ache for Quidditch had filled my heart and I stood, just watching them flit about, for almost an hour, allowing the memories to wash over me. Memories of Harry, of my brothers, of Hogwarts and home, at the Burrow, all of them beautiful, happy memories. They filled me up like a rich chocolate cake, a warm weight inside me – but they left me feeling guilty, and they left me wanting more.

"That was some save from Wood. There was spin on the ball and I swore it was going for the left – that's where I would have gone because you were drifting, but y–– "

"You play Quidditch?" Michael interrupted, dumbfounded.

I stopped short, caught out. As far as I knew, girls didn't play Quidditch – there were no girls on the House teams – and here I was, blathering away. I swore mentally, something that would have earned me a cuff over the back of the head from mum. "Um – I … My brothers used to play. At home. The sides were uneven, so I often had to … fill in."

It wasn't a total lie.

Michael's reaction was unexpected.

"Wow! That's brilliant. All the girls I know wouldn't be caught dead on a broom. Afraid they'd mess up their hair or something stupid. I dunno." He laughed heartily, running a hand through his own, very messy, jet-black hair. Just like Harry did.

My heart ached like never before. For a moment, I could barely stand. What was this, this sudden onslaught of emotion? Quickly, I rallied myself before anyone noticed. "So you don't think it's strangethat I play?" I ventured cautiously.

He shook his head quickly. "No, no. No way. I think you're … you're _revolutionary!_ What position do you play?" Michael asked, genuinely interested.

"Chaser," I said. "Seeker, if I have to, but I prefer Chaser. And you're a Keeper."

"That's what all the girls say," he quipped. I rolled my eyes. "No, jokes aside, I'd love to see you play. Maybe you could come to practice some time?"

I raised an eyebrow. "You're a Gryffindor. I'm a Slytherin. Somehow I don't see it working out. Just two centuries of mutual hatred standing the in way."

"Fair enough," Michael grinned, laughing. His laugh was infectious. Eyes wide open, I could see Harry laughing, superimposed on the scene before me. Laughing at breakfast, doing homework in the common room, watching Hermione lose at chess, at Christmas in Burrow – I remembered everything about that day. The smell of the food being tended so lovingly by my mother, the sound of conversation flowing like the richest of wines, I could feel the heat of the living room fire, crackling away, the heat of the love, which needed neither light nor noise to make its presence felt. I remembered the snow, white at the start of the night. I remembered Harry, laughing, with me.

Outside the window I saw the hulking green of the Forbidden Forest, shimmering through the October rain, and I remembered the very last time Harry laughed.

Michael's voice came to me from very far away. "We could have a private session, then. Just you and me. The season's about to start and I could do with the extra practice … So? You up for it?"

"Yes. Sure." The words tumbled from my mouth of their own volition. I dragged my eyes from the window and forced a smile. "Why not?"

A grin split Michael's face. "Brilliant. I'd say tonight, but– " he glanced out the window at the teeming rain " –you probably don't want to get all muddy."

I gaped at him. "Are you joking? Quidditch training isn't Quidditch without the mud!"

"Serious?"

"I don't joke about Quidditch," I said gravely.

Michael nodded, his expression that of a seasoned undertaker. "Me neither. Meet you after dinner, then? In the Great Hall?"

I opened my mouth to agree but the words wouldn't come. A tumult of emotion was whirling through me: excitement and sheer elation at the thought of playing Quidditch again; pleasant surprise at the discovery of my new friend … and guilt. I wasn't here to play Quidditch and laugh in the mud with Michael Potter. I was here so his son and daughter-in-law would live long, full lives, instead of dying young, murdered by his classmate.

As thought drawn by a magnet, my eyes swivelled around to where Riddle skulked in the corner with the rest of the Slytherins. He was embroiled in a conversation with Raphael Nott and I tried to turn away, but his eyes pounced. Like a Niffler sensing gold, he felt my presence and trapped me in his diamond-blue gaze. He was still talking with Nott. Through a veil I saw his lips move, his head nod in agreement to whatever Nott had to say – but his eyes never left mine.

A Dementor could not have affected me like Riddle's eyes. All of a sudden I was freezing, drowning in icy blue, spiralling downwards through a diamond tunnel. And I felt like the richest girl in the world.

And then, Riddle laughed.

I stopped falling. I tore my eyes free. I was on fire. Hatred coursed through my veins like poison – but I welcomed it. I wanted it. It coupled itself with the cocktail of emotion Michael's appearance stirred in me, mixing and morphing into something new, something so potent, something so real. I felt stronger, stronger than I had felt in months. It was like all curtains had been pulled down, all the cobwebs swept clean, all the mist blasted apart by a beacon so bright it could be seen from Pluto.

"Ginevra? That a yes?"

My mouth was very dry. "Ginny," I corrected quietly. "It's Ginny."

"Ginny. Right then. Yeah, so, how do I do this Patronus thing again? … Ginny? Are you alright?" Michael asked anxiously. "You've gone pale."

"I – I'm fine," I said quickly. "I'm fine." I threw him a small smile. He returned it, but I could see he wasn't convinced. Luckily for me, however, he didn't have time to pry further because Dumbledore had announced it was now time for us to practise on a real Dementor.

"But sir–– " squeaked a terrified Hufflepuff. "Dementors are r-r-r-really scary."

Dumbledore smiled kindly at her. "My mistake, Miss MacMillian. We will not be using a true Dementor, merely a Boggart I have tricked into thinking that a Dementor is what scares us all the most. A most crafty piece of spellwork, if I say so myself," he added with a twinkle. "The Boggart in question currently resides in this charming carpet bag here, but before we can practise on it, we need to clear some space. Stand back, if you please." Dumbledore gave his wand a wave and all the desks were swept neatly up against the walls leaving a large open space in the centre of the classroom.

There was a feeling of tense anticipation when everyone settled themselves back down on the stacked desks. Like an overblown balloon, I could feel it straining, waiting to explode. Despite his constant warnings, Dumbledore had not been able to convey to the class just how hard it was to produce a Patronus when faced with a Dementor.

"I'm scared, sir," whispered a Gryffindor with a lisp to much laughter and cat-calls from the Slytherins. She panicked. "What if I can't do it? What if it eats my soul? I like my soul."

"Your soul is safe with me, Miss Brown," said Dumbledore. His voice inspired complete confidence and Abigail Brown subsided.

"This is a hundred times better than Merrythought," muttered Michael in my ear, grinning. "I wish Dumbledore took us every DADA class."

I nodded. "He's good."

"Yeah. He's …"

Michael froze.

The whole class froze.

The carpet bag had ripped at the seams and the Dementor was loose.

I stared at Dumbledore; it was so unlike him to mount a surprise attack. And then I saw the Slytherins – or, not _all _the Slytherin, per say; Malfoy and Black and their cronies were on the verge of wetting themselves – but Riddle and Nott, looking far too cool for school, just continued talking. I glared at them. Time to wipe the smirks off their faces.

I stood up.

Twenty-odd faces whipped towards me … as did the Boggart-Dementor. I could feel the sudden cold, feel its icy grip on my lungs, but I forced myself to think of happy times, better times. I closed my eyes and saw the Gryffindor common room, alive with music and colour and the shouts and laughter of happy people. On a table Ron was dancing, the cup held high over his head. The portrait hole opened … and there stood Harry.

The memory ran though me like a hot drink, warming me down to the very tips of my toes. I raised my wand.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

A gigantic silver vixen snapped at the Dementor's cowl, snarling and growling, her hackles raised. I cried out, thrusting my arm forward towards the Dementor, a general leading her troops into battle. My Patronus streaked at the Dementor, launching herself off a desk, jaws wide, aiming for the throat. The Dementor stumbled, tripping slightly on its robe, and the classroom rang with approval for my efforts. I was beloved of the people. It didn't last long.

The applause evaporated as the Dementor straightened, its icy breath rattling once more as it swung to face Abraxas Malfoy. Buoyed with confidence after my success, no doubt thinking anything that someone as common as I could do, he could do better. Malfoy raised his wand and shouted, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

And Malfoy panicked. He backed away from the encroaching Dementor, colliding with a desk and falling to the flags. His wand bounced away across the floor, useless. He did not move, only watched, as the Dementor drifted ever closer, arms outstretched. All around him, his 'friends' shrank back against the wall, leaving him stranded. I couldn't help but to wonder if it was the Dementor's icy power drowning away their courage in cold that kept them from helping their friend – or something else. Whatever it was, it was effective.

The class breathed as one, all of us panting, our breath crystallising in the freezing air. We were all suffering, and needlessly at that, because we all knew a spell to vanquish the Dementor – and yet no one lifted their wand to help.

A part of me hated them for doing this, but a bigger part of me hated myself – because, this was just a classroom and not the big bad world; because, this time, if I walked away, no one would get hurt.

Almost instinctively, I found myself going for my wand. Though there was no love lost between Malfoy and I, I could not stand idly by and watch this! This wasn't about trying to impress, Inter-House rivalry or Slytherin politics; I couldn't have cared less what Juliet or Riddle or anyone thought of me. This was about being a good person, about doing the right thing, be it easy or otherwise. By doing nothing, by being a spectator to something that you know, in your heart, is well and truly wrong, and doing nothing, brings you right down to their level. _Stand up for what you believe is right, Ginny_,my Dad always told me,_ and you'll never go wrong._

I raised my wand for the third time, ready to fight for Malfoy's soul as well as my own, and for anyone else who needed my help. If I held the Dementor off everyone in the room, one-by-one, it would not bother me at all. But as I opened my mouth to shout out the incantation, a spell hit me, coming at me out of nowhere. I coughed and spluttered, my throat suddenly tight. I recognised the prognosis instantly – a Silencing Charm.

I whirled around, fully expecting to see Riddle and Nott sniggering away behind their hands – this was the sort of trick they would find particularly humorous, I'm sure – but before I could retaliate with a pair of non-verbal Bat-Bogey Hexes, Dumbledore caught my eye … and winked.

Dumbledore had jinxed me, not the Slytherins! But why? I gaped at him, completely at a loss. Dumbledore seemed to understand my confusion and inclined his head in silent apology. I could not bring myself to return the gesture. This Dumbledore was alien to me. The man I knew would never allow another to suffer unnecessarily. The fact that this was only a Boggart and that Malfoy was in no real danger was immaterial. It's all well and good to remark on safety when you're sitting, home and dry, on the sidelines, watching. I stared at him, trying to decipher his expression. And then I understood …

He was waiting. Dumbledore was waiting for something, or someone.

Michael had the same idea too. "What's he playing at?" he hissed. "Dumbledore! He's just sitting there!"

"It's not a real Dementor."

"So. Bet it's real enough to him."

I raised my head to look at him. "Then do something," I said quietly. "Please."

Michael shuffled his feet. Desperate I gazed around the classroom, trying to catch the eye of a friend, but no one cared – then! Alphard looked up. Silently I pleaded with him, trying to communicate Dumbledore's agenda to him with my eyes alone. Alphard gave me one curt nod and began to, ever so slowly, rise. Affection for him blossomed in my chest like the reddest rose.

Then he froze.

I stared at him, confused. Was he scared of the Dementor? Somehow I didn't think so. I followed his gaze and saw... Juliet. Her eyes two honey-coated daggers, she forced him back into his seat, her scowl more powerful than any Imperious. I frowned, irritated that he would let Juliet's anal insistence on rules to get in the way of doing the right thing. Alphard seemed to pick up on my vibes and stood up a little straighter – only to freeze again, Juliet's Basilisk yellow eyes keeping him in his seat. I glared at him, nodding my head at Malfoy, cowering on the floor, my look expectant. He gave a little shrug, as helpless as Malfoy, and shrunk back into his seat. I turned away, disappointment withering the rose, and Juliet's triumphant smirk burned my back from the other side of the room. She tossed her perfect curls, the cat that got the cream and the canary. Her triumph curdled in my belly. I had half a mind to march over to her and punch in her pretty little nose – cursing her under the table was far too subtle a retaliation to the tsunami of feeling rushing inside my chest. My face set, I was about to stand up when a scream brought me crashing back to reality.

In front of me, the Dementor was towering over Malfoy, raising its hands to it hood, and–

"Back, you Devil!" Michael scrambled forward at the eleventh hour, and leapt in front of Malfoy's prone figure, shielding him from the Dementor. Brandishing his wand like a whip, he bellowed, "_EX__pecto Patronum__!_"

A mist, weak and silvery, shimmered between Michael and the Boggart-Dementor. His pathetic Patronus deteriorated by the second, dissipating off into vapour, and his whole body shook like a leaf with the effort of holding it up, but he did not let go. Pride surged up inside me. His Patronus may have been feeble, but his heart was so very strong. I smiled. Now I knew where Harry got it from.

"Call that a Patronus, Potter? My granny could do better than that and she's got no legs!" called a boy from behind me. I was about to yell at him, but then I remembered I had no voice – and then he hurried past me, his carrot-red hair near glowing in the semi-darkness, and stabbed his wand at the Dementor, crying out, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Nothing happened, but he tried again. And again. And again, until, a silver mist seeped from his wand, and, wand held high, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Michael. "Thought you could do with a hand, mate," he grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Michael grimaced. "Took your time."

"Better late than never, though? – _Expecto Patronum!_" A third person, a girl with black hair hanging down her back, from Ravenclaw, had joined in the fight. "_Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum!_" When she failed to produce a Patronus, she retrieved Malfoy's wand with a Summoning Charm instead, giving it back its ghost-white owner.

And, as, one by one, my classmates got to their feet and joined in the fight, I understood why Dumbledore had muted me. The scene unfolding before me, students from the four Houses, all of them united in the face of a common enemy, it was a truly touching scene. Gryffindors cooperating harmoniously with Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws was nothing new, but with Slytherins? This was something – something _special_. And I stood there, a huge grin plastered across my face, just soaking in the melee of voices, abuse and praise all at once. I caught Dumbledore's eye and we shared a moment, a smile, an understanding that this was more than just a lesson in conjuring Patronuses.

"Make way, boys," the Gryffindors joked as Geoffrey Edgecomb, a Ravenclaw with a stiff upper lip, and his equally proper friend, Martin Williamson, rolled up their sleeves, ready for action, "the professionals have arrived!"

Yet Martin only winked. "You Gryffindors, you're all brawn. It's ripe time for some brains!"

"Oh, _please_," sneered Orion Black, swaggering forward. "I've seen Trolls with higher cognative capacities."

"Care to put your money where you mouth is Black?" challenged my great-uncle Bilious Weasley.

Black smirked. "Oh, no, thank you. I should feel so awful thinking of your sisters going without Christmas presents this year after you forfeit your family's income in a foolish bet." He didn't _sound _awful. Quite the contrary.

"Less talk, more Patronus!" grunted a Douglas Boot, red-faced and panting, but standing tall. "_Including you_, Black," he added warningly.

Black scowled but gave his wand a deft flick and out slunk the fattest, truly the fattest, cat I had ever seen. It didn't even bother to charge the Dementor, simply giving it a glare and a swipe of its claws, before settling down beside Black's shiny shoes and watching Abigail Brown's canary Patronus through greedy silver this lacklustre display, Black's efforts had sparked some life into the Slytherins, who, slowly and painfully, one by one, stood up and leant their wands to the task. All except Riddle and Nott who stayed gossiping in the corner. Nott's wand lay across his knees, the puppet master pulling on the strings of a grinning silver alligator.

Riddle had no Patronus.

And, because irony is sweet, just at this point, the combined effort of the class forced the Dementor back so far it gave up and glided around, searching for fresh, easier, victims. Slowly, and then faster and faster, it bore down on Riddle and Nott. Nott's alligator snapped viciously, waddling forward on stubby legs. For a moment I thought he was safe, that his Patronus would hold, but as the Dementor turned its hood towards the huge sliver reptile it seemed to cave in on itself, evaporating up in a thousand little wisps of smoke, leaving them stranded. Nott went pale. He spat out the incantation thanklessly, brandishing wand as though cursing the Dementor – but you can't curse Dementors. You can't duel with a Dementor. Hate and fear and all those evil, nasty things that curses require taste so sweet to Dementors.

Nott backed away, glaring at the approaching figure, his wand hand almost steady.

"_Expecto Patronum_," he commanded. "_Expecto Patronum_. _Ex-expecto Patronum!_"

Riddle just sat there, legs crossed, watching his friend struggle as though it was a mildly interesting Quidditch game, an amused little smile ghosting about his lips.

"Help him out, Mr. Riddle." Dumbledore's voice rang final around the classroom.

Riddle just sat there, smiling that stupid, sanctimonious smile.

Nott fought on, backed up against the desk, sweating with the effort of maintaining his weak shield. His lips were jammed together and not once did he glance over at his so-called friend. There would be no help from there. Dumbledore saw this too. With a flick of his wand, Nott's shield suddenly glowed a brilliant white, strong as a steel, and Nott, taking his chance, slunk away to our side of the classroom, shivering. And Riddle was all alone with the Dementor.

He yawned, and recrossed his legs. The Dementor did not affect him. I stared, first at Riddle, and then at Dumbledore, totally at a loss. Dumbledore's blue eyes were dark with thought and his brow was stern. He did not meet my eyes.

"Mr. Riddle," said Dumbledore quietly. "This lesson requires your participation."

Riddle flashed him a perfect smile and got gracefully to his feet. "Of course, sir."

And he stodd, walked straight through the Dementor and sat down again in Malfoy's empty chair.

**.**

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

**.**

"Immune to a Dementor!" Michael said for the thousandth time on our way to lunch. "How can someone be _immune_ to a _Dementor_. Merlin, when I was standing there, I ..." He broke off and shuddered. "But _immune_ ... Ginny, it did nothing to him! He just walked right through it! Like it was a ghost or something! How is that even possible?"

I shrugged. My mind pounded so hard I thought my skull would crack from the pressure. "I didn't know the first time you asked me an hour ago and I certainly don't know now, Michael," I snapped, more tired than frustrated.

"Could be he's a vampire," suggested Bilious Weasley.

"He's creepy enough," Michael agreed fervently. "I know Sluggie raves about him but I don't trust that bloke. There's something about him. He's too ..."

"Perfect?" Abigail Brown, Bill's girlfriend, supplied dreamily. Bill scowled and Michael gave a hoot of laughter.

"Got some competition there Bill?"

"Oh sod off Potter."

Abigail blushed. "Oh, Bill, I didn't mean it like that!" she wailed. "You know I love you, you know I do! Riddle, he's so handsome, but he scares me." She lowered her voice, pulling Bill down to whisper in his ear. "Oh, Bill, I you simply can't tell anyone this, but I ... oh, Bill, I heard someone, I can't remember who, say, say he's a ... _vampire!_"

Michael and I exchanged looks and ducked behind a suit of armour, laughing.

"She's lovely, honest," Michael sniggered, "but the fire under the cauldron doesn't exactly burn that bright ... if you get me."

"Not quite the full sickle?" I grinned.

"Two queens short of a full deck."

"The lights aren't all on upstairs."

"If you get me."

"I got you," I gasped, doubled over. "I got you." Where the laughter had come from, I had no idea – Abigail wasn't even that funny, and yet I was laughing harder than I had in months, than I could remember, so hard I was almost hysterical. And it felt so good. It felt so good just to let go and laugh with a friend. I was laughing so hard tears streamed down my face and my sides ached and I couldn't breathe – I couldn't even remember why I was laughing. Michael saw me and laughed harder, and because he laughed, I laughed, and we laughed together like I used to laugh with Harry. Hysterical, I staggered sideways and banged off a statue of hippogriff wearing what looked like 18th century French courtier's wig, or a large beehive, and, still consumed by giggles, fell forwards.

Strong arms caught me and held me tight.

"No," Michael laughed. "I got you."

"You got me," I panted.

"I got you."

"Y-you got me."

"That's right. I got you."

A pair of black boots, scuffed but shiny, appeared out of nowhere before me. Michael stopped laughing. Still hanging in his warm embrace, my eyes skirted upwards. All the laughter died on my lips, little pearls of joy ground back into worthless dust by soulless diamond eyes.

"Five points from Gryffindor," said Juliet silkily, standing at his side.

"For what?" Michael demanded hotly.

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Let her go now, Potter, or it will be fifty."

Michael stared at him. I could feel him heating up, feel the anger boiling where our skin touched. Righteous and outraged at the injustice. Just as Harry would have been."Are you saying? –"

"To let her go. Yes. I am. Now."

"No."

It took me a while to realise it had been me who spoke the word. And then I said it again. "No." I stared Riddle right in the eye and stood up straight, clinging to Michael like a drowning man hugs his float. He was my anchor, something real, keeping me from drowning in Riddle's eyes. "No. He'll let me go when I want him to."

Michael gave my hand a squeeze.

"'Course I will," he said quickly, catching on. "Just say the word ..." He paused and caught my eye, asking for permission. With an infinitesimal nod I gave it, and Michael, his eyes on Riddle, smiled down at me, and said, "Just say the word. Love."

I pulled his arms tight around me. Protection. Riddle just stood there, an angel carved from ice, but the ice was melting. Juliet stood to the side, calculating. She caught my eye and moved closer to Riddle.

Riddle and Juliet? For just a moment I had to stare.

I couldn't think of two people who deserved each other more.

"But gosh, Riddle, thanks awfully for your help," I gushed, giving him my brightest smile. "If I ever do meet someone who is actually holding me against my will, I'll just shout your name, will I? And you'll come rescue me."

The ice was melting. "Anytime."

"My knight in shining armour." I gave him a little wave, the kind I always saw Pansy Parkinson flash around the Slytherin table, that little bitchy wave of ultimate dismissal.

Only when Riddle had disappeared from view did Michael and I drift apart. He cleared his throat while I fixed my hair, shining up the breastplate of the nearby suit of armour with Alphard's old handkerchief the better to see my reflection.

"Thanks," I said, turning to Michael. "For that."

Michael nodded, evidently confused. "Sure, yeah. You're welcome ... But what, in the name of Merlin's saggy y-fronts, was that all about? One minute we're laughing and then you're having a full-on fit and then Riddle shows up and bam! You're all ... I dunno ... cryptic. You guys don't have history do you? I know you're new but ..." He sounded worried. And a little excited.

"Not the kind of one you're thinking about, at any rate," I said finally.

"What kind, then?"

"You know, I'm starving," I said loudly, and started walking. "What's for lunch?"

* * *

Well? Back in da hood after God knows how long – what do you think? Chapter fourteen is half-written too! I've it all plotted and am just fleshing things out now, so if anyone have any special requests for certain scenes between two characters or ideas or anything, just give us a bell. I'm always looking for ideas!

Oh, and there's a _Lord of the Rings_ line in there somewhere! Brownies to whoever finds it!

Cheers, Plonksie

ps: REVIEW – you know you love me, xoxo


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_REVIEW REPLIES:_

A little unorthodox this, but will do these ASAP! Really wanted to post this chapter! For now, I shall simply say the response was as epic as always and I am so honoured to being on the receiving end of such amazing and sincere comments. You peeps are heroes, really. LOVE YOU!

* * *

Beta'd by _**pop-pop-bananas**_. Love her too

**

* * *

Fire & Ice**

Chapter Fourteen

_  
__You gave me this, made me give  
Your silver grin, still sticking it in  
The longest kiss, your loaded smiles  
Drift madly to you  
Pollute my heart drain  
You have broken in me  
Broken me  
All your mental armour drags me down  
We can't breathe when you come around  
All your mental armour drags me down  
Nothing hurts like your mouth_  
'Mouth' – Bush

.

(_Tom_)

Zero. He gave me a zero. A nothing, worse than a T. Even in my head the words sounded wrong. Tom Riddle? _Zero?_ And when I approached the teacher's desk at the end of the lesson to clear up the matter, he had the audacity to deflect me. As if I was some irksome fly one could simply brush off and forget about. I stood by his desk, calling after him.

"The objective of the lesson was to overcome the Dementor. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I feel I accomplished that objective."

Dumbledore paused on the lintel, and then turned around. I had anticipated impatience, even anger, but I was unprepared for pity. It caught me like a slap.

"No, Mr. Riddle, the outcome of the lesson was to learn the skills to overcome a Dementor – by casting a Patronus charm, I might add. The _objective _was to work together. To help each other regardless of House, or name, or other such petty limitations. Who are you helping Tom, but yourself?" His voice was soft. "If even yourself."

And there was something in his blue eyes I had never seen before. Failure.

Rooted to the spot as though by Devil's Snare, spawned from my own mind, I could only watch as he heaved a sigh and left the room. All around me I could hear the rumbles of students flocking to lunch, feet thundering above and below. These mindless idiots, these sheep of sheep, nothing filling their minds but potions homework and their next meal. How could they even think of food as the real world spun by? All the time they wasted, eating, agonising over mushroom soup, or tomato. At the age of thirty-one Alexander the Great stood with the world at his feet. How much time did he spend eating?

Unaware of even leaving the Defence classroom, I found myself in the third floor corridor, deserted all for one person.

"Loitering, Miss Montague?"

She tossed her hair, that annoying habit girls have, but her smile was razor sharp. "With intent, Mr. Riddle."

I followed her gaze around the corner. And I saw them.

Together.

I couldn't look away.

"The little whore," Montague said cheerfully. As I stared down my gypsy, I could feel her eyes, only for me. Her eyes pulsed a soft gold, liquid honey. Sticky eyes. "I saw her trying it on with Alphard only this morning. And that display in the classroom with Malfoy. Couldn't you see her, coming to his rescue? Couldn't you, Tom?"

"Malfoy?" My voice was steady. My tone, dubious. My face, the perfect mask.

"Oh yes. She's spoken of him in the dormitories. And Alphard, of course. The girl has no concept of other people's property."

"Alphard?"

"I, for one, see her for what she truly is, but your Regan ... I hear she's quite taken with our new 'friend'. Poor girl, the Gypsy must have enchanted her."

"Enchanted her," I echoed.

Through a green fog I watched them laugh, tussle, watched her fall and watched him catch her. Hold her tight. Watched him say, "I got you."

"You got me."

A compulsion, my fingers groped for the red braid hidden beneath my cuff. Tracing it. "You got me," she said. If only she knew.

And as I watched them, Juliet Montague watched me. Rapturous. A raptor.

"I got you."

A thousand tiny green parasites were eating my veins from the inside out. A tiny green parasites were swarming and stinging inside my chest.

"Y-you got me."

"She talks about you too, you know," Montague added subtly.

"That's right. I got you."

With one word from my lips, a thousand tiny green parasites would eat Michael Potter with a million tiny green teeth.

"Walk with me, Tom." She offered me her arm, a veiled excuse for her hand. "Walk with me a while." And she shared a smile with me, a fellow spider, spinning, spinning away, her big eyes sticky for the prize. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

She was such a precious, such a horrid little thing. A shaft of pale October sun broke through the window and painted a white halo around Montague's perfect curls.

_But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?  
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.  
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon_

I took Juliet's hand. "A walk sounds like a charming idea."

Two spiders can spin a web faster than one. And one catches more flies with honey than vinegar. And once I was done with her, with her and her sticky eyes, I would eat her like a helpless little spider,all caught up in her own web.

"Come then, Tom." She stared pointedly at the laughing couple. "Prefects' duty."

**.**

**xXxXxXxXxXx**

**.**

(_Ginny_)

Neither Alphard or Juliet showed up for lunch and, after toying with a bowl of leek and potato soup for a few minutes, I abandoned the pursuit. The small knot of the Slytherins down the other end of the table stole my appetite; they weren't staring at me, per say, but I could tell they all wanted to. In a strange way, that was worse.

I was first to reach the Transfiguration classroom and of this I was grateful. I could sit in the big empty room and think without distraction. My first mission was to confront my friends and demand to know what I had done wrong and how I could make amends. As much I as disliked the idea of apologising to Juliet, I deemed it a necessary evil. My second mission was slightly harder.

Riddle.

What to do about Riddle? I was beginning to think killing him maybe wasn't the right course of action. I had been foolish to think that my magic, no matter how much it had improved on my time on the run, was any match for his. At sixteen years old he could repel a Dementor without a wand, without a word. There was no telling what other aces he had up his sleeve, and I was not stupid enough to call his bluff. And it wasn't just my magic I doubted. It was myself. I didn't trust myself around him. What if he invaded my mind, truly invaded it, broke down my guards and waltzed right through the front door and saw the skeletons stacked high in my heart's closet, all my innermost secrets? What if he saw himself? I had never killed another human before, not in cold blood – not even in self-defence. I had seen people killing other people, though, and I knew I just wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes, eyes so blue, and cause them to cloud in pain. But if I couldn't kill him, what could I do?

Perhaps getting him sent to Azkaban for life would do the trick. But how to get him sent to prison, now that was the question. I couldn't prove he had killed his parents, not with poor Morfin Gaunt already incarcerated for that crime. My only hope was to convince someone else that it had been he who opened the Chamber of Secrets and, in doing so, murdering Myrtle. Dippet believed Hagrid was to blame but that he had done it unintentionally – there was nothing accidental about Riddle. He only did want he wanted to, nothing else. Truth will out; they would have to lock him up.

Who to tell, that was the next question. The next problem. Dippet, no, he would think me mentally unstable, and I was threading on thin ice with him as it was. It would have to be Dumbledore; it could only be Dumbledore. Hadn't Harry told me Dumbledore always suspected Riddle's involvement, even before he got solid proof? Dumbledore would believe me, definitely, but maybe that was all he could do. It was the same situation all over again. Who would take my word, me, the tinker's daughter, the girl who appeared out of thin air without an explanation, a wand, without even a name – over Tom Riddle's? The very idea was stupid. Hopeless.

But I had to try.

I glanced down at my watch. I had twenty minutes before class started. Dumbledore would be in his office now. I could go to him, tell him everything. I left my bag behind in the Transfiguration classroom – an anchor to reality – and marched down the corridor, up the stairs, all the way to Dumbledore's office. I stopped outside the door. It was ajar. I took a steely breath, pushed it open and stepped inside.

"Miss McKenna. This is a pleasant surprise." Professor Dumbledore was standing behind his desk, shuffling papers. "Coincidentally, we were just talking about you."

"_We?_" My eyes slid around the room, taking in the other two occupants.

Juliet and Riddle.

I wondered vaguely what I had done to insult the Fates; it must have been something ghastly for them to deal me this hand.

"Prefects' meeting," Dumbledore explained cheerfully. "It ended two minutes ago and I held back Mr. Riddle and Miss Montague to discuss how you have been settling into your new home."

"You could have asked me, sir," I said, a little peeved.

"And I plan to, only I wanted an outsider's perspective. You might have neglected unsavoury details. I find we often do when feeling the need to impress, or indeed, get through an interrogation quick enough to arrive at dinner before all the good lamb chops have been taken. Ginger Newt, Miss MacKenna?" I couldn't help wondering if he did that, offering around the refreshments, to break up the conversation so that you have time to reflect over your Ginger Newt, or Sherbet Lemon, or whatever was currently taking his fancy, on the triple meanings wrapped up in his words. When the half-empty plate of biscuits sailed past my nose, I took one with a small thank you, more out of politeness than actually wanting one. Both Riddle and Juliet declined. "Excellent," Dumbledore chuckled. "All the more for me!" And he popped one into his mouth whole, winking at me. I smiled back. I couldn't help it. Just being with Dumbledore seemed to give me hope.

He set the plate down on his desk brushed crumbs from his hands, smiling around at the ragtag group gathered before him. I doubt you could have found three people less willing to be in each other's company if you tried. Juliet was looking daggers at me, this morning's argument not forgotten. My earlier vow to repair our friendship wavered. Being her friend would be so much easier if she wasn't a complete cow. Riddle, on the other hand, was cracking his long, delicate fingers, obviously bored. This surprised me a little … and, inexplicably, irked me. It was so obvious, like I would ignore the twins and Ron for excluding me from their games, way back when we were young. Younger.

All the same, I was having hard time turning my back on him to address Dumbledore. I itched to check the trajectory of his eyes every few seconds, sure they were fixed on me. I could not forget his expression from earlier, the ice melting as I clung to Michael in defiance, in spite, for fun, for warmth and love and hope.

"So," Dumbledore said invitingly. Crickets were deafening in comparison to the following outrush of information. I wasn't about to talk with Riddle in the room, Juliet seemed ready to deny my existence forever more and Riddle was just bored. Maybe it was Dumbledore's presence rather than mine. Sensing he was getting nowhere with the floor open, Dumbledore directed his next question at Juliet. "How do you feel Miss MacKenna is settling in? You are her dormitory mate, are you not?"

Juliet shot me a smile both Hermione and Pansy Parkinson would have killed to claim. Hermione, because of its cunning; Pansy, because you could tell she was about to do something awful. The smile she awarded Dumbledore was not much of an improvement. "Oh, we're the best of friends, Professor!" she clamoured. "All three of us. In fact, Ginevra's going to help Tom with some spellwork tonight. Aren't you, Ginevra?"

Once again, I imagined Juliet with great bogeys eating her face, and I fought to restrain myself because as much as I thought the hex would improve her sneering visage, I didn't think cursing her right under the Deputy Headmaster's nose would be a good thing for my reputation or for her declaration of us as the next best thing since the three Musketeers.

Dumbledore seemed pleasantly surprised by Juliet's revelation. "Even the best of us need a little tweaking at times," he said wisely. He was speaking about Riddle, but he was looking at me, an inquiringly glance down his long nose, as if he didn't quite believe Juliet despite her tone of utmost sincerity. I knew she was being sarcastic, manipulating me into a corner, but someone who didn't know her quite so well might be duped.

I opened my mouth. This was my last chance to dismantle the situation; I could say there was some mistake, a miscommunication, and I'm sure Dumbledore would back me – and Riddle would not go against Dumbledore, no matter how much he hated the Professor. But the words just wouldn't come.

Dumbledore sent me a shrewd look. "You are aware of this engagement, Miss MacKenna?"

"Of course, sir." The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. "He ... he, uh, asked me after this morning's lesson. DADA. Patronus. Yes, er, we're doing Patronuses. Everyone's soul needs saving, um, and ... and I can make good Patronuses, and he can't, or, at least, I don't think he can, so I'm, yeah, going to help him, and," And why was I still talking? Juliet was sniggering behind her hand and Riddle was cleaning his immaculate nails with Dumbledore's letter opener. Also sniggering. "And ..." And I closed my mouth.

"Good, good. And I'm sure Mr. Riddle will have plenty to teach you in return. There's nothing quite like a little shared learning, if I say so myself." Dumbledore clapped his hands together and checked his watch. "And would you look at the time? Goodness, we must be on our way. Walk with me, Miss MacKenna, I want to have a word about your essay on the difference techniques used in the conjuring of mammals and teacups. Good day, Miss Montague," he gave Juliet a little bow, holding the office door open for her. "And I expect you in class in five minutes, Mr. Riddle."

Riddle nodded, the picture of politeness. Dumbledore strode from the classroom, a stack of corrected essays scurrying along in his wake like the strangest sheep I had ever seen. He didn't see Riddle throw the letter opener, a sharp silver thing, very shiny, up into the air, catch it deftly and – holding my eyes, not winking or smiling, just capturing and holding, locking up in iron manacles – and walk past me out into the post-lunch throng – letter opener still in hand.

"I saw that," I called after him.

He paused, such a smirk kissing his lips. "And?"

"And I think you're despicable."

He let out a self-indulgent little chuckle. "Despicable. Is that so?"

"And I think you ought to put that back. Now."

The way he looked at me sent a wave of goosepimples up and down my legs. Hot goosepimples.

"You don't want to know what I think."

I marched up to stand opposite him. Arms folded. "Try me."

Riddle's eyes crackled. His head cocked to one side, sizing me up, raising an eyebrow. Mocking me. I thrust my chin out.

"What's the matter Riddle? Cat got your tongue?" I licked my dry lips. "I said try me."

"Try you?"

When he said the words my brain froze, freezing me to the spot, and deep, deep inside my core something small and lost, it burned with new fire.

Years of practice with my brothers had taught me not to back down but inside I was quaking. The space between us was suddenly gone, evaporated like some old Patronus and my own personal Dementor held a silver dagger to my cheek; an sharp, silver finger to match his sharp, silver tongue. The doorframe was hard against my back. I was in a trace, that was my only explanation. Our eyes locked and the silver cold burned against my jaw. Slowly, using the letter opener's flat blade, he twisted my head from right to left.

I heard my neck crack. I was panting. My breath clouded the blade.

Riddle wiped it clean with a delicate white finger. My legs shook. The pit of my stomach boiled, slowly, faster and faster, spilling warmth down my legs, hot blood panting through the veins. I was Joan of Arc, on trial for withcraft; I was Joan of Arc, burning for her sins; I was Joan of Arc and the fire made me ache inside, ache in places I never knew existed until silver fingers filled them too full.

I could hear my heart. He could hear my heart.

His finger traced the air around my lips.

I reached out, for the knife, for his head, my brain blinded by ice, and marble fingers caught my wrist. He held my arm above my head, pinned against the doorframe.

"Try you," he murmured, velvet against my throat.

His voice seep through my skin, through flesh, into my blood. And he was inside me, everywhere at once, so hot.

The fire was too hot for me to breath. The ice, too cold.

His eyes, a kaleidoscope, vortex, and I spiralled downwards in a hopeless diamond blue. My breath died happy in my throat, my head rolling to the side, the knife's silver caress sliding down my artery. My hair spilled free and I closed my eyes and inhaled and silver teeth bit down sharp.

The bell rang, signalling the start of afternoon classes.

I was panting against the doorframe, Riddle standing a good foot away, arms folded, watching me like I was a particularly amusing zoo exhibit. "Saved by the bell," he drawled, and I was alone.

I felt cold all over.

_What had happened? _

Shivering, I grabbed my bag and ran for Transfiguration. I was still shaking when I sank into a seat in the back next to Alphard – only to remember he wasn't talking to me. I went to move when he shot me a furtive smile. Sighing loud enough to launch a ship, I almost collapsed back into the chair, relief knocking the legs out from under me.

Alphard stared at me. "You look like you've been cursed."

"I think I have," I muttered darkly.

"You think you have been _what_?" he said sharply.

"I think I've been cursed. As in, someone put a spell on me."

Alphard leant in close, his voice low and urgent. "Who?"

"I don't know," I lied hopelessly. "Does it matter who?"

Alphard raised his eyebrows. "If you don't want to tell me whom, fine by me, it's not that important," he hissed. "What did they do?"

"I don't know!" I cried out, flopping down on the desk. "One minute I was standing there, completely normal and then ... and then ..." But how could mere words explain the hot, hot heat that had spread through me, the lock of his fingers, the cold kiss of the stolen knife. I felt myself blush at the memory. How had I fallen to pieces like that? And why? It was so unlike me – And then the bell rung and I opened my eyes and he was more than a foot away, icy sweat running down my legs.

"Ginny?"

"I must have imagined it," I muttered, more to myself. "That's what he did, he made me see it. Bastard."

"Made you see what?" Alphard demanded.

"See ..." I blushed harder. "Just stuff. Look, I'm fine now, really. Let's not talk about it, okay? Let's, uh, let's talk about this morning," I seized on the first thing that came to mind, desperate to fill my head with new images. I could still see his eyes.

"This morning," Alphard repeated quietly but firmly, "can wait. I don't think we're finished talking about this curse business. In fact, I think you ought to tell Dumb– "

"Yes, yes I think talking about this morning would be a very productive idea, thanks for agreeing with me," I interrupted hotly. "Especially the part where you stormed out on me. What was that about?"

Alphard folded his arms. "You show me yours, blondie, and I'll show you mine."

I folded mine. "Ladies first."

A small smile broke through Alphard's tight frown. "Where's Juliet when you need her," he muttered. I punched his arm lightly and he yelped. "Merlin's beard! That's going to leave a mark. You know I have the complexion of an overripe peach, that is to say I bruise like one."

"Stop whinging," I hissed, ducking away from Dumbledore's disapproving gaze. "Just Glamour it if it bothers you so much."

"But it will still be tender."

"So use a Numbing Charm."

"I'll remember it."

I fingered my wand. "I can always erase your memory."

On the other side of the classroom Juliet sat beside Riddle. He whispered something to her and she laughed out loud.

"Erase away," Alphard spat with uncharacteristic venom.

We spent the rest of lesson in silence practising conjuring ferrets. My head pounded like my brain was suddenly too big for my skull, a great thundering pulse of pain. It was all too much for me to take in and here was the physical manifestation. Riddle had cursed me, I was sure of it. But why? Why, I did not know. Sighing, I stroked my rather translucent ferret as it nibbled at the edge of my Charms homework, wishing I could Transfigure it into a pillow instead. Alphard left without speaking to me.

When the bell rang Dumbledore held me back. Bent over his desk, he shuffled papers and essays into organised stacks, seemingly oblivious to my presence, though requested. I approached nervously. "You wanted to see me, sir," I began, pausing.

"Ah, yes. Ginny." Dumbledore set down his papers and surveyed me with experienced eyes. "I think you ought to sit down." As though he had spoken some secret password, my knees sagged and I sank like a sack of potatoes into a cushy chintz armchair that had most certainly not been there two seconds prior. With a wave of his wand, the essays cluttering the desk vanished and he rested his elbows on the shiny surface, looking at me over steepled fingers, and just smiled. "Well," said Dumbledore.

"I'm just tired," I said quickly, forcing myself to sit up straighter. "Honestly, sir. Lots of work to do."

"In that case, I won't keep you long," he said warmly. "It has been my intention to speak with you for some time now, about how you are settling into Hogwarts. Somehow, I don't think Miss Montague was completely honest in her account this morning." The second part of the question, the '_and to ask if you have remembered anything more of how you came to be here, in Hogwarts, in 1942, without the faintest recollection of, well, anything_' hung in the air like an overripe fruit.

I gave Dumbledore a tired smile. "I'm settling in all right. It's a lot of work."

"The academic demands, of the N.E.W.T. cycle especially, are taxing," he agreed. "So perhaps it would be more productive, for the both of us, if we held this conversation a later date, when you are more rested."

I nodded. "That would be great, sir. I need to talk with you too."

"I thought that. Now, onto the second, slightly more pressing issue." Dumbledore's smile faded a little and a serious edge overtook his eyes. "If you are indeed to be helping Mr. Riddle tonight Ginny, a word of warning. Be on your guard. Constantly. I hate to make assumptions of my students but– "

"I understand," I cut across him quietly, meeting his eye – and in that moment he understood exactly how much I did. "I understand."

Dumbledore said nothing for what seemed like a long, long time. Then he conjured a pot of tea, two mugs and a large plate of chocolate biscuits. "I think you ought to start at the beginning, Ginny," he said, pouring me a cup of tea. "But first have a chocolate biscuit."

I took a biscuit and dipped it in my steaming tea, licking off the melted chocolate like I used to do when my mother's back was turned. She thought it was vulgar. "Don't be so _vulgar_, Ginny!" she'd snapped, snatching away the biscuit. When all the chocolate was gone, either in my mouth or on my fingers, I opened my mouth–

And took the easy way out.

"Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Professor," I said. I stood up and ran out of the classroom.

I ran, my feet echoing around the deserted corridors, until I reached the safety of the dungeons. The dark and the damp enveloped me like an embrace, the dark shadow of a mother; a mother who would allow me lick the chocolate off biscuits whenever I wanted. I shivered and pulled my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, slowly following the flickering torches back to the Slytherin common room. I had an hour to go before dinner but I could not bring myself to return to class. Not with Alphard not talking to me, and Juliet determined to do everything in her power to make me miserable, and Riddle. Not after the events, or non-events, of this afternoon. I closed my eyes and could see him, laughing, as I fitted against the doorframe, a puppet on his string. The funny thing was I didn't feel the spell hit me, there was no telltale rush, no loss of feeling, no silky blindfold wrapped tight over my mind's eye – and the blade, its cold smoothness, its power, had been so real. But I supposed this was only further proof of Riddle's prowess as a sorcerer. I thought of this and felt very alone and scared, all by myself in the dark tunnels.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl in bed and hide under the covers and wake up back in my own bed, in my own time, where my own mother would scold me for licking the chocolate off biscuits and my own Potter, Harry Potter, in whose arms I was complete, would kiss the chocolate stains from my mouth.

Nor did I want to run into Dumbledore.

"Ginevra!"

I had been so preoccupied in my thoughts, I hadn't seen Professor Slughorn come waddling out of his classroom, a great blonde walrus dressed up in a green tweed suit. "Ginevra MacKenna. The very person I've been wanting to see."

"Me, sir?" I stared at him, shocked. I wasn't aware that Slughorn even knew my first name. In potions, which had never been my strongest subject – not saying I was dismal at it, which I wasn't, only I possessed no natural flair. I found the whole thing very tedious, lots of waiting around and fiddly little instructions – I doubt he spoke more than two words to me, in the entire time I had been in his class.

"Yes, you! Of course, you," Slughorn cried genially. "Don't sound so surprised, my dear girl. Why, only over lunch Albus told me all about your amazing aptitude for Defence Against the Dark Arts. A corporeal Patronus, indeed. Very impressive, very impressive." He nodded in a satisfied way, as though it had been he, himself, who cast the spell. I rolled my eyes. I could see what was coming, smell it from a mile off. "Now, Ginevra. I just so happen to be having a little spot of supper tonight, in my office, for a few more exceptional students, and I insist you join us. Why, lots of your friends will be there. Abraxas Malfoy, for one, and Slevin Lestrange and that charming Regan, and Tom, of course." He looked at me expectantly. "At seven O'clock, say?"

I floundered a little, thinking of Michael, thinking of Riddle, but then nodded. "I'll be there at seven."

Slughorn beamed. "Splendid, splendid! A friend of mine is coming along." Here his tone turned very casual. "I doubt you've heard of Agamemnon St. John? Inventor of the self-tying tie? An old student of mine, actually. Always keeps in touch. I say." He stopped, scrutinising me with narrowed eyes. "What's that there, on your neck?"

I startled. "Where?" I asked, feeling my throat. "What? Where?"

Slughorn pointed with a fat finger. "Just there. Did you cut yourself?"

Cut myself?

"I – I don't think so," I stammered, still trying to locate the wound. "Not that I remember, anyway."

Slughorn let out a great laugh. "Ha! Well, I can't say I've never done that. Only last week I found quite the beauty of a bruise on my left calf and to this date I haven't the faintest idea how it got there! It's a mystery. Ah well, dinner is calling." He gave the air a great sniff and began waddling again, down the passage. "At seven, then, Ginevra, in my office."

I watched him turn a corner and then hurried on to the common room, running up through the empty common room to my dormitory. I lit all the lights and stood in front of Juliet's mouldy mirror. Carefully, I caught up my hair, pulling it to the side the better to examine my reflection. Sure enough, a thin red line bisected my throat, running diagonal across the vein. I touched a finger to it. How had it got there? Had I scratched myself in my sleep?

And then I remembered.

The sharp sting of the letter opener as Riddle drew it down my neck.

And then I realised.

If the cut was real ... so was everything else.

* * *

Okay, well I enjoyed this chapter, hope yiz did as well. Not sure if there are any hidden references (SHOCK!) but I would to hear from anyone and everyone, especially about the knife scene. Did I overdo it, or was it crediable, or are you just hopelessly confused? Please, tell me, it truly is the only way I can get better.

Thanks, in advance :)

Cheers, Plonksie.


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